Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The fires had burned low.

Not the ones on the battlefield--those had long been extinguished. But the ones within her, the ones that had kept her moving, kept her upright, kept her alive.

Aelin had walked through the halls of Orynth for hours, shoulder brushing shoulder with warriors whose names she didn’t yet know, offering words of thanks that could never be enough. She had clasped callused hands, knelt beside wounded soldiers, kissed foreheads stained with ash.

And through it all, Rowan had been at her side.

He’d kept a hand near the small of her back, not guiding, not pressing--but there . A tether in the storm.

All through the next day, she met with allies, thanking them for their solidarity and comforting those who were grieving.

Rowan had taken some time with his cousins, Endymion and Sellene, who would be the next Queen of Doranelle. Aelin supposed that would be quite a shock for her to hear. She made a mental note to seek out the soon-to-be queen the next day to offer her support. What a change it would be for Terrasen to have a strong diplomatic relationship with Doranelle after all these years of hostility.

Now, as the hour grew late and the sun went down on the first full day of peace, the castle was quiet. Those who could sleep had, and those who could not, drifted like ghosts through the stone corridors.

She wanted to do something , felt like she had to do something and yet, for the first time in a very long time there was nothing she could do at that moment. The tiredness started to seep into her bones, and she felt she might sleep for days the moment she allowed herself to close her eyes.

Aelin started to walk down a corridor, not with any destination or purpose. But Rowan had stepped in front of her, moonlight glinting off the silver in his hair, and said, gently but firmly, “Enough.”

She had opened her mouth to argue. To say that queens did not rest while their people mourned.

But he had only brushed a knuckle down her cheek, where soot still lingered despite the bath she’d taken hours ago. “They saw you. You’ve done enough tonight.”

And maybe it was the gentleness in his voice. Or maybe it was the way exhaustion curled into her bones like frost.

But she nodded. Once.

Rowan led her to a guest room that was tucked down a side hallway, far from the main wings. It was freshly cleaned and unused. “I asked someone to make it up for you. It’s not the Queen’s chambers, but it appears to be one of the few rooms the Adarlians never used.” Aelin said nothing as Rowan opened the door, only stepped inside and stood there for a moment, staring at the bed.

It was not large. Not ornate. But the linens were fresh, the hearth warm. The bed had pillows.

She turned to thank Rowan, but the words caught in her throat.

He stood in the doorway, gaze fixed on her, eyes heavy-lidded with the weight of the day and the war and the godsdamned centuries of waiting.

“Come to bed,” he said, voice low. Not a demand. Not a plea.

An invitation.

Aelin undid the clasps of her jacket with slow, aching fingers. Shrugged it off, then her boots. She moved on muscle memory, tugging back the covers.

Rowan followed, undressing with quiet efficiency, setting his weapons within reach even here, even now.

And when he climbed into the bed, when he pulled her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her like armor, like wings, like home , she finally let go.

Not with tears. Not with trembling. But with silence.

She pressed her face against his chest and inhaled deeply, letting the scent of pine and snow and him anchor her. His heartbeat was steady beneath her cheek.

“I didn’t think we’d make it,” she whispered.

Rowan’s hand slid up her back, fingers curling in her hair. “I didn’t either. But we did. Against all odds, we’re here.”

They lay in the hush of the room, the crackling fire the only sound.

“I’m afraid,” she admitted. “Not of dying. But of after . Of what’s left.”

He pulled her closer, one hand splayed across the tattoo on her back. “We’ll face it together, Fireheart.”

Aelin nodded, her eyes already drifting shut.

And in that narrow bed, in that quiet room far from the echoes of war and the whispers of prayers, Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius slept.

Not as a queen. Not as the Fire-Bringer.

But as a female who had burned and burned--and still found something left to hold.

Rowan’s arms did not loosen. Not once.

Rowan

Rowan awoke to the sound of her breathing.

Not the slow, even rhythm of sleep. No, this was sharp. Erratic. Ragged.

His instincts flared awake fully in an instant. His hand reached instinctively across the bed, and--

She was curled on her side, fists clenched in the sheets. Her brow was slick with sweat, and her mouth moved soundlessly.

“Aelin,” he said, softly at first.

No response.

Then louder, firmer--his hand brushing her shoulder. “ Aelin. ”

Her eyes snapped open.

And she screamed .

He was on his knees beside her in a heartbeat, both hands on her arms. “It’s me. You’re safe. Aelin, it’s me.”

But she didn’t hear him. Not at first. Her gaze darted wildly across the room, her chest heaving, face pale with terror.

She scrambled back against the headboard, as if trying to put distance between them. Between herself and the world.

“It’s real,” she whispered. “This is real?”

He nodded. “Yes. You’re here. We’re in Orynth. It’s over.”

Her eyes flicked to him then. Focused. Slowly. Disbelievingly.

Rowan didn’t move. He let her look. Let her see him.

Alive. Breathing. Whole.

She reached out with trembling fingers and touched his face, as if waiting for it to vanish. As if waiting for him to vanish.

“I was back there,” she choked. “Maeve--you died, everyone died, I thought I had killed them, you. It was my fault.”

Rowan caught her hand and pressed it to his mouth. “You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Your friends are safe. Aedion is safe.”

She swallowed hard. Her body was still shaking beneath the thin blanket. The sweat on her skin had chilled.

“It was so real,” she whispered. “Cairn, I heard his voice, and Fenrys. I couldn’t stop it.” Her voice broke. “I thought I killed them all. You. I--gods, Rowan, I felt it. Their blood on my hands. Your blood.”

He reached for the matches on the bedside table and lit a single candle. The soft golden glow filled the space between them, gentle and flickering. No harsh light. No shadows. Just enough to remind her that the world was solid.

She stared at the flame, her eyes wide. Unblinking.

“I couldn’t stop myself,” she said again, voice barely audible. “It felt real .”

Rowan moved closer. Pulled her into his arms.

And she came. She melted against him like she was breaking apart. No tears. Just silence and shuddering.

His hand moved through her hair slowly, soothingly. “It was a dream. You’re safe. We’re all safe now. It’s over.”

But he knew it wasn’t over. Not really. Not when the scars Maeve left ran deeper than any wound. Not when Erawan’s darkness still lingered in corners of the mind.

Because he knew that feeling.

He’d lived it, too.

He still remembered the cold, hollow space in his chest when he’d  nearly lost her in Endovier, after she had forged the Lock. The way she’d collapsed, her power gone, her soul dimmed to a flicker. He had felt his heart shredding in his chest for those long moments. He had believed she was gone. That she had given herself over to the void and left him behind. That he would have to grieve again for a mate he failed to save.

The desperation he’d felt then--gods, it had nearly undone him.

He remembered how his hands had shaken as he pulled her to him. How he’d whispered her name over and over, as if just saying it might be enough to call her back.

He hadn’t needed words or logic or reason in that moment. He had needed her. Just her. Her presence , her heartbeat . The feel of her warmth and the scent of her skin. 

Once she had awoken, once he knew she was okay, he still couldn’t quite accept it as true until they had joined together and he had felt himself moving deep inside her.

That kind of desperation--the need to touch someone just to know they were still alive--it was a language of grief. Of survival.

And she spoke it, too.

She looked up at him.

The candlelight danced in her eyes. “You’re really here.”

Rowan nodded.

She kissed him.

It was not soft. Not tentative.

It was desperate--born of terror and memory, of the need to feel something good, something real . Her hands clutched at him as if he were the last solid thing in a crumbling world. Her mouth moved hungrily over his, and he let her take what she needed.

He met her urgency with steady reverence.

As if she might dissolve if he didn’t hold her tightly enough.

Rowan threaded his fingers through her hair, cradling her head, anchoring her. Her body was taut beneath his, coiled with lingering fear and pain, and he kissed her again, slower this time--offering steadiness in place of the chaos still rippling through her.

Her breath caught.

When he whispered her name, her whole body seemed to shiver in response.

She pulled him closer, her hands fumbling with the ties of his shirt, her mouth hot against his throat. “I need you,” she whispered. “ Please, Rowan. ”

Rowan nodded, his voice too thick to speak.

They undressed each other in slow movements and shivering touches. Every brush of skin was like a salve, every shared breath a vow. There was no rush. No need to pretend they weren’t both frayed at the edges.

He kissed her jaw, her neck, her shoulder.

She arched into him, her hands roaming as if to map every inch of him, to memorize him.

And when he finally entered her, she gasped--not in pain, but in relief, like a breath she hadn’t known she was holding had been released.

Rowan wrapped his arms around her and didn’t let go.

They moved together slowly, as if rediscovering each other. Then again, and again--until her hands gripped his shoulders with wild strength, until she returned each gentle thrust with a thrust of her own, demanding more. Rowan responded in kind, giving her what she needed, everything that she needed, until her soft cries broke through the silence and he buried his face in her neck to muffle his own.

There were no words. No barriers.

Only skin against skin, heart against heart.

Only the truth they could not speak, but which echoed in every movement, every kiss:

I’m here.
You’re alive.
We survived.

When she broke apart beneath him, shaking and breathless, he followed a moment later, moaning her name like a prayer torn from his soul.

And then they lay tangled together in the hush that followed, still joined, still clutching each other like the world might end again if they dared let go.

Chapter Text

The light was warm on her face when she stirred.

Soft, golden morning light--the kind that slipped through sheer curtains.

Aelin blinked slowly, as if waking from somewhere far deeper than sleep. She didn’t move at first, only let her eyes drift open to the ceiling of the unfamiliar guest room, where shadows still clung to the corners.

But it was warm. The sheets beneath her were soft. And there was a weight curled around her.

Rowan.

His arm was slung over her waist, heavy with sleep. His breath moved steadily across her shoulder, and his bare chest was pressed to her back.

Real.

That was her first thought. 

Real. Not a dream. Not a trick.

She inhaled, slow and deep, and let the scent of him--pine and snow and home--flood her senses.

Last night… gods.

The nightmare had torn her apart. Had broken her. Had taken her back to that place. With Maeve. And Cairn. And his hateful, sneering face.

But Maeve was gone now. Truly gone. Gone, she reminded herself.

Maeve had taken her back to that place. With Cairn. Before they’d ended her, she had thought she was back there again. The chains. The mask. The iron box. A personal hell crafted just for her. She had brought them all back there. Broken them all one last time. Her, Rowan, Fenrys, Lorcan.

But they had emerged from her darkness, and Fenrys had ended her at last. With Goldryn. She remembered beheading Maeve after and stabbing Goldryn through her head. Just in case, she had said. 

She was gone. Forever.

Last night had just been a dream. A horrible, dark rendering of imagined horrors that would never come to pass. Blood on her hands.

It had broken her.

She swallowed hard.

But then he had come. Just as he always did. Strong, steady. Rowan. He had lit the candle. Held her. Reminded her she was still Aelin. Not a weapon. Not a monster. 

And then-- then --he’d loved her. Put her pieces back together.

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she didn’t cry. Not now. Not in this moment where peace still lingered like morning mist.

Instead, she turned in his arms carefully, quietly.

Rowan murmured something low and half-asleep, but didn’t wake. His arm tightened instinctively around her, pulling her flush against him. His face was relaxed in a way it almost never was while awake--mouth soft, brow smooth. Vulnerable.

Aelin reached up and brushed her fingers through his silver hair, watching as it caught the sunlight.

She thought of Endovier. Of the months in chains. Of the cold and the silence and the certainty that no one was coming. That no one could possibly care if she lived or died.

And now…

Now she lay in a sun-warmed bed, wrapped in the arms of the male who had come for her. Who had followed her into darkness, and grief, and fire.

Who had let her fall apart in his arms last night and hadn’t flinched from the broken pieces.

Her throat ached.

“Rowan,” she whispered, voice no louder than a breath.

His eyes opened slowly--green with glints of brown, as sharp and wild as ever. But when they met hers, they softened immediately.

He reached up and cupped her cheek. “Fireheart.”

Aelin leaned into his touch.

“I dreamed I killed you,” she murmured. “And when I woke up… I still wasn’t sure.” Her voice cracked. “Even when I touched you. Even when you held me.”

His thumb brushed her cheekbone. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’ve felt that, too.”

She met his eyes. He wasn’t just saying it to soothe her--he meant it. She could see it there in the shadow behind his gaze.

“I almost lost you,” he said. “After the Stone Marshes, when Maeve took you. And then after the lock. I carried you out of Endovier not knowing if your soul would stay. I was screaming inside the whole time.” He gave a small, rough laugh. “I think I still am, some days.”

Aelin reached for his hand and laced their fingers together. “We’ll find our way out of this darkness together.”

They lay there in silence for a while, just breathing.

The warmth between them wasn’t only from the sun.

Eventually, Rowan tugged her closer again, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “Let’s stay in bed a little longer,” he murmured.

She hummed, already letting her eyes drift shut again. The world could wait.

For now, she had Rowan’s heartbeat under her ear.

And it was exactly what she needed.

~~~~~

The sun was higher now.

Its light spilled lazily across the floor, warmer and more golden than before--slanting through the tall windows and catching the dust motes that floated in the stillness. Somewhere in the castle, far-off voices moved like the echo of another world. One she wasn’t yet ready to return to.

Aelin blinked sleep from her eyes and shifted slightly in the bed.

Rowan’s arm was still wrapped around her waist, heavy and grounding. His bare chest pressed to her back. His breath stirred her hair with every exhale--slow and even.

She had no idea what time it was.

Midday, maybe later. Far past any reasonable hour to be in bed.

She should have gotten up. She should have found the others--Aedion, Lysandra, Fenrys. Gods, even Dorian. There was probably food to be eaten, meetings to be had, wounds to tend.

There was so much to do.

But still, she didn’t move.

Rowan’s hold was steady. Warm. Protective without being possessive.

And for the first time in too many days, maybe weeks, her body didn’t ache. Her chest didn’t feel like it was collapsing in on itself.

Just this.

His heartbeat under her palm, steady and real.

Rowan stirred next to her a breath later. A low, rumbling hum of awareness. Aelin smiled as his hand slid slowly up her side, stopping just beneath her ribs.

“Awake?” she murmured.

“Mmh,” was all she got in return.

And then he kissed the curve of her shoulder.

Softly. Sleepily. But not without purpose.

Aelin didn’t move as his mouth brushed higher--her neck, her jaw. She let the touch roll over her like a tide, melting away the last of her tension.

Rowan shifted again, drawing her onto her back gently so he could look at her. The midday sun lit his face--his silver hair tousled, green eyes clear now, awake. Watching her like she was something fragile and precious.

Like he still couldn’t quite believe she was real.

“I feel well rested,” she said quietly, stretching a bit.

“Me too,” he replied. And kissed her.

It was different than the night before--less desperate, more certain. A claiming of presence, of love.

Aelin kissed him back, winding her fingers into his hair, arching into him as his hands found her skin and curves again.

There was no need to rush this time.

The world had not ended. They had not lost each other.

So they could savor it.

Rowan kissed her slowly, thoroughly--like he had all the time in the world to taste and remember every part of her. Aelin let herself melt beneath the warmth of his touch, the reverence of his hands.

He moved with a patience that unspooled something deep inside her.

It wasn’t just passion. It wasn’t just need.

It was a grounding, a promise: You are here. You are safe. You are mine, and I am yours. Forever.

His mouth trailed kisses down her throat, over the arch of her collarbone, reverent in every movement. Aelin shivered, eyes fluttering closed as he mapped a path down her body--kissing the soft line beneath her breast, the dip of her navel. Each touch unraveling the nightmare that had haunted her only hours ago.

When he slid lower, settling between her thighs with a quiet, anchoring breath, she trembled--but not from fear.

Rowan looked up at her once, his eyes fierce and unyielding and full of nothing but devotion.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” he murmured, a wild glint in his eyes. “Let me remind you how alive you are.”

Then he lowered his mouth to her.

Aelin gasped--her hand finding his hair, fingers threading through his silver locks. He moved with devastating slowness, as if this was worship, not love. She arched, breath catching, unable to stop the soft sounds that spilled from her lips. His hands held her steady, grounding her even as he undid her completely.

When she came, it was with his name on her lips, the world narrowing to the bond between them and the way his mouth never stopped moving--easing her through every last shudder.

Rowan kissed his way back up her body and met her mouth with a fierceness that stole her breath all over again. She pulled him closer, needing to feel every inch of him, to anchor herself in the one thing that had never broken.

And when he entered her--slowly, deeply--she wrapped her legs around him and held on.

Their rhythm was slow, lingering. Not because they didn’t want more, but because this was more. Because neither of them wanted to let go of the quiet, of the safety, of this moment that belonged to no one else.

When they reached the edge together, it was with hands entwined and foreheads pressed close, tears burning behind her eyes from the sheer relief of still being able to feel this. To feel him .

Rowan kissed her brow, her cheek, her mouth. "I love you," he whispered, as if saying it could hold the world together.

And Aelin, her voice barely audible, whispered it back.

Rowan

Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius had been through war.

He had bled on scores of battlefields. He had stood watch through endless nights. He had watched comrades die and kings fall. He had known grief in all its forms.

But nothing, nothing, had ever leveled him quite like this moment.

Aelin lay curled into his side, her golden hair spilled across his chest, rising and falling with his breath. The sun was well into the sky now--its light warm, lazy, gilding the quiet room in soft gold. The chaos of the outside world seemed suspended, locked out behind the thick stone walls.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Rowan felt something like peace .

Her fingers traced idle patterns over his ribs. Not with thought, just instinct. Her breath was slow. Even. 

Rowan tightened his arm around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She murmured something he didn’t catch--too soft, too sleepy--but nestled closer, her bare leg sliding over his. He could have stayed there all day. Would have, if she asked. If she needed it.

But he knew her. Knew the shape of her thoughts. Knew that the fire in her would return to her eyes, and she’d remember the world waiting beyond these four walls. Her people. Their friends. Their allies. The wounds left in the wake of what they’d won.

“We should get up,” she said at last, though her voice held no conviction. “People are probably wondering if we’ve vanished.”

“They’ll survive a little longer without us,” Rowan said, brushing his fingers down her bare back. “We’ve earned the right to vanish for a while.”

She tilted her head up to look at him--eyes still heavy with sleep, but the steel beginning to return. “Mmm. I’m starving,” she admitted. “Like, whole bakery starving.”

Rowan chuckled softly. “That I can fix.”

He kissed her again--slow and sweet--and then nudged himself upright. She groaned in protest but followed, dragging a blanket with her as she sat and stared blearily at the sunlight.

Her hair was a glorious, wild mess. Her skin was flushed and marked with his touch. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“What?” she asked when she caught him staring.

He only smiled. “Nothing.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide her own smile as she rose and began pulling on one of his tunics, the hem brushing her thighs. Gods help anyone who looked at her sideways--he wouldn’t be responsible for what happened next.

They dressed slowly, moving like people relearning how to exist in the world again. Their armor was gone, their weapons far from reach. It felt strange--but not unwelcome.

Rowan buckled his belt and looked toward the door. “Kitchen first. Then we find the others.”

“Deal,” Aelin said, tying back her hair. “And I’m serious about the bakery.”

She reached for his hand before they stepped into the hall. Rowan took it without hesitation, their fingers twining together with the ease of breathing.

The palace was quieter than expected--people resting, healing, rebuilding. The signs of war still lingered: scorched stone, shattered glass, soot-smudged walls. But there were also signs of life.

Faint talking, distant murmurs. The clatter of dishes in the kitchens. The sun through open windows.

They passed a few guards, all of whom either bowed or offered weary smiles. Rowan nodded in return, but his attention stayed on the female beside him. Every inch of her bore the marks of survival. Of fire and darkness.

She had made it. And so had he.

And now they would begin again.

Together.

Rowan could smell the bread before they reached the kitchens.

Warm, yeasty, with a faint hint of cinnamon. It reminded him of a simpler time, though he couldn't quite remember when. Perhaps before the war. Perhaps in another life.

Beside him, Aelin walked with her shoulders squared, head high--but her fingers remained entwined with his, as if anchoring herself to something real, something steady. He didn't let go.

When they entered the long, fire-warmed kitchen, it was to the sight of two familiar figures at a scarred wooden table: Aedion and Fenrys, both nursing bowls of stew and hunks of bread. The former stared down at his food like it might vanish if he blinked; the latter sat in silence, gaze distant, spoon untouched.

They didn’t look up as Rowan and Aelin entered.

Aelin stepped forward first. No words, no greeting. Just the slow approach of someone walking back into a shared past.

Aedion looked up.

His eyes--so like Aelin’s--met hers and he stood from his seat. Didn’t speak.

Aelin didn’t speak either.

She simply reached him and folded herself into his arms.

Aedion caught her with the soft, strong arms of an older brother. Loving, protective, proud.

Rowan turned away slightly, giving them privacy they likely didn’t care about. He busied himself at the counter, pulling mugs from a shelf, pouring what remained of a lukewarm herbal tea into one and drinking. It tasted like earth and something vaguely flowery.

The hug stretched long--minutes, maybe. Aedion’s broad hand splayed across Aelin’s back as if she might be taken from him again. She buried her face in his shoulder. Silent. Still.

When they finally pulled apart, there were no tears, just that raw understanding that passed between them--cousins forged in fire, molded by war.

“It’s good to see you again,” Aedion said quietly. “I missed you.”

“You too,” Aelin replied, her voice hoarse.

Rowan turned then, setting a fresh mug before her. She glanced at him in thanks before easing into a seat beside Aedion.

Fenrys still hadn’t spoken.

Rowan moved to the table and took a place across from him. “You sleep at all?”

Fenrys shrugged. “A little.” His voice was rougher than usual, lower. “Better than before.”

Before. Before the end. Before the screams and pain and mental hellscapes. Before Aelin’s agony, and Connall’s death.

Rowan nodded once. “You should eat.”

Fenrys gave him a look that said he didn’t need orders from anyone. But he picked up his spoon.

Aelin had gone quiet again. She and Aedion sat side by side now, not speaking, but not needing to. Their shoulders brushed. Aedion passed her his bread without asking if she wanted it. She took it.

The silence was not uncomfortable. It was worn, old, familiar. The silence of people who had seen the same horrors, survived the same battlefield. They were no longer who they had been. But they were still here.

Still together.

Eventually, Rowan broke the stillness with a soft, steady voice. “What news about the castle?”

Aedion looked up, gaze unreadable. “The men are asking about her,” he said, glancing at Aelin. “They want to know when they’ll see their queen.”

Aelin met his eyes. “Soon.” She sighed. “I need to find my things. I’m afraid I’m not looking particularly queenly.”

Aedion snorted. “You always were one for finery and appearances.”

The corner of Aelin’s mouth twitched in a hint of a smirk. 

Rowan looked around the table at the three of them. These people, bound not just by war, but by choice. The family they had built in defiance of fate.

It wasn’t joy that sat with them. Not yet. But it was something.

Survival. Kinship.

And in time, maybe hope.

Aelin

The sun had begun its slow descent toward the western mountains when Aelin and Aedion, having eaten their fill, found their way out of the castle. The golden light caught in Aedion’s golden hair, turning it near-silver where it touched. He was looking out over the plains of Theralis, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight. So much blood and destruction remained.

They walked toward the gate of Orynth, no particular destination in mind but both cousins feeling the need to inspect and survey the lingering damage. Then, Aedion murmured, “I should have gone after you.”

Aelin closed her eyes, unsure at first what Aedion was referring to.

“When Maeve took you,” he explained. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, Aelin. I’m sorry I failed to protect you. I was so mad at Dorian that day. I feel a little bit bad about it now, but I left him with a pretty bad black eye.”

Aelin huffed a laugh. “Thank you, Aedion. For caring so much. And for staying where you were needed.”

Aedion draped his arm over her shoulders, and Aelin wrapped her arm around his waist.

“I know that couldn’t have been easy for you,” Aelin said as they made their way through the gate and out into Orynth. “But you were needed here.”

“I know that,” he snapped, then ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “But that didn’t stop me from hating every second of it. Every day. Knowing you were out there--suffering--and I couldn’t do a damn thing.”

“I told myself every day that Rowan would find you,” Aedion continued. “I knew he wouldn’t stop looking for you. Knew that if anyone could bring you home, it was him.” He turned to face her. “But gods, Aelin... I hated it. Not being able to help. Not being able to fight for you.”

She swallowed hard. “I hated it too. Hated being away from you after having just gotten you back after so long.”

They walked along the streets of Orynth in quiet contemplation for a few minutes.

“I’m sorry, Aedion,” Aelin said. “I’m so sorry about the crazy, stupid plan I forced on you. And Lysandra, and Rowan. Gods, I feel terrible now, looking back.” She shook her head, leaning into his side as they walked. “It was so demeaning to all of you.”

Aedion looked at her then, truly looked at her. “You mean the plan where Lysandra and I produce a line of false Galathynius heirs after you heroically sacrifice yourself? And then she raises them with Rowan? Yeah, you weren’t yourself when you made that plan.”

“I was so angry at you,” he admitted, voice rough. “For even thinking that was something I could live with. And I was so mad at Lysandra for agreeing to it. I’m afraid I treated her very poorly.”

“I was desperate,” she whispered. “I didn’t see any other way. I--” She shook her head. “I thought it was the only way to protect Terrasen once I sacrificed myself to stop the gods, the Valg, Erawan. I was already halfway planning my own funeral.”

Aedion looked away, jaw clenched.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it with every shattered piece of her heart. “I put too much on both of you. On everyone.”

“I forgive you,” he said softly. “I could never not forgive you, Aelin. Everything was such a mess. It still hurts, but I understand why you did it.”

They stood in silence again, wind curling around them, bringing with it the scent of snowmelt and pine.

Finally, Aedion said, “Do you want to talk about what happened? With Maeve?”

Aelin flinched.

She opened her mouth and then shook her head once. “I can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

His eyes darkened. “That bad?”

She nodded. “Worse than you can imagine.”

She turned her face toward the sun, let it warm her skin. “I still see it in my dreams. Still feel it sometimes. Like I never really left that iron coffin.”

Aedion reached for her hand and gripped it tightly, tears forming in his eyes. “I’m so sorry you had to endure that. And that it still plagues you.”

Aelin smiled faintly. “Rowan is the only reason I sleep at all at night. When he’s with me, it’s like the memories... quiet down. Like they know not to try.”

“You deserve that peace,” Aedion said. “You deserve him. I think he might love you more fiercely than I do, and that’s saying something.”

“You deserve someone who gives you peace too, Aedion.”

They stood like that for a long while, side by side, tethered by blood and grief and love. They stayed that way until the sun dipped low enough to throw shadows across the snow-capped peaks--silent sentinels of a kingdom beginning to heal.

“I’m sorry about Gavriel,” Aelin said softly.

Aedion’s jaw tightened again, but he didn’t let go of her. “He didn’t have to die for me.”

“No,” Aelin said. “He didn’t. But he chose to.”

“I didn’t even get to speak to him properly before the battle,” Aedion said, his voice breaking at the edges. “I spent so much time pushing him away. And then suddenly he was gone.”

She didn’t try to offer empty words. She just waited.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself,” he said. “He gave his life to protect mine, and I never gave him the chance to... to be my father.”

Aelin reached out and placed a hand over his heart. “He knew, Aedion. Maybe you didn’t say the words, but he knew. He saw the kind of man you became. He loved you.”

Aedion looked down, breathing hard. “And I loved him. I just didn’t realize it until I lost him.”

Aelin nodded, her own throat tight. “Then honor him by living the life he wanted for you. A good life. A full one.”

Aedion nodded silently, tears glimmering in his eyes. “He’s with my mother now,” he said faintly. “They can finally be together. I think she would want that, after all this time.”

Aelin didn’t press further. She only stepped into his arms and hugged him tight, two warriors who had lost too much but were still standing.

Still fighting. Still healing.

~~~~~

Aelin returned to the castle as the late afternoon light began to stretch across the stones, warming the halls with golden rays. Her heart was full--of memories, of loss, of love. She found Rowan waiting for her.

She found him just inside the great hall, leaning against the window, staring out at the mountains. Without words, she came to him, brushing a kiss to her temple.

"Dinner?" he asked softly.

She turned to him, arching a brow. "Just us?"

He gave her a half-smile. "Endymion and Sellene are here. I thought we might share a meal."

Surprise flickered across her face, quickly followed by a warm smile. "I'd like that."

The small dining chamber was already laid out when they arrived. Endymion rose the moment they entered, his familiar grin broadening, and Sellene--poised and cool as ever--offered a graceful nod. Aelin returned both greetings with sincerity.

They sat, shared wine, and exchanged pleasantries that slowly, tentatively, deepened into something more meaningful.

Aelin set her glass down and looked across the table to Endymion and Sellene. "I wanted to thank you both--for taking a chance on me. For fighting beside us when you could have walked away."

Endymion gave a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. "Rowan gave us little choice, honestly. But I don’t regret it."

Sellene's pale green eyes sharpened. "You earned our loyalty, Aelin. That is no small thing."

Aelin inclined her head. Then she turned to Sellene fully. "Congratulations on your impending queendom."

Something flickered in Sellene's eyes, perhaps apprehension. Or humility. "Thank you. It will be... no easy mantle."

"Few worthy things are," Aelin said. Then, her voice softened. "Are you sure you want it?"

Sellene studied her for a long moment. "Are you sure you do not? Doranelle was yours to claim as much as it was mine.”

Aelin sat back, her fingers drumming lightly on her glass. "I have quite enough to be getting on with in Terrasen. My people need me. And I have no desire to rule a court that would balk at the idea of a demi-Fae queen."

Sellene did not flinch. "Then I hope to change that."

Aelin met her eyes. "Good. Because I would very much like for us to be allies. And if that is to be so, I would like to know that my kin--those with mortal blood in their veins--will be welcomed, not merely tolerated."

Endymion raised his glass. "To change, then. And to the future."

They all raised their glasses and drank, a tentative hope blooming in the space between new friends.

As the night drew on, Aelin and Rowan lingered together, their fingers brushing now and then beneath the table, both of them savoring this rare thing: peace.

As they spoke, Aelin found herself watching Rowan more than once--how he relaxed in the presence of his cousins, how his voice softened with familiarity and history. There was something in the way he smiled at Endymion, how his shoulders eased as Sellene teased him. It stirred something quiet and warm inside her. He belonged here, too--not just at her side, not just in battle, but in laughter and kinship.

For so long, Rowan had been her anchor, her strength. Seeing him now, surrounded by those who had known him before he had ever met her, Aelin felt both awe and a sharp, bittersweet ache. This was a piece of him she hadn’t fully known, and yet she was grateful beyond words to be included in it--to see him whole, not only as her mate, but as a cousin, a friend, a son of Doranelle. 

She reached beneath the table and squeezed his hand.

He looked at her, and whatever he saw in her eyes made him squeeze back.

Chapter Text

Rowan

The sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, gilding the snow-capped Staghorn Mountains in warm amber light. Rowan walked the now familiar halls of the palace, heading toward the guest chambers where he and Aelin had been staying since the battles had ended. Dust motes danced in the shafts of golden light, and the sound of distant hammers and footsteps echoed faintly behind him.

His muscles still hummed from the morning spent in his hawk form, gliding through the updrafts above the high peaks with Fenrys’s white wolf racing far below. It had been their first real moment of peace in weeks, the kind of quiet that came only with the wind in his feathers and the scent of pine and snow. For a few hours, they hadn’t spoken, just run and flown.

Later, over a simple lunch with Aedion, Rowan had asked about the progress on Aelin's permanent chambers. Aedion had promised it was all in motion--her belongings were being located, her old rooms cleared, the queen’s suite prepared.

Fenrys had eaten little, his silver eyes distant, but he’d murmured at one point, "Connall would’ve liked it here. The quiet. The mountains. The people."

Rowan had only nodded, understanding too well the ache of absence that never quite left.

Now, as he reached the door to the guest chambers, that ache softened. Because on the other side of it, she was there.

He stepped inside and found Aelin already standing barefoot beside the claw-footed tub, her back to him, golden hair cascading down her spine in a tangle of knots. Her posture was stiff--fatigue, tension, and that bone-deep pressure of responsibility clinging to her like a second skin. 

Steam rose gently from the already-filled tub, the scent of jasmine and lemon verbena curling through the warm air.

Aelin looked over her shoulder and smiled at him, slow and tired, but warm.

"You’re back."

He crossed the room to her in a few strides, pressing a kiss to her brow. "I missed you."

Her smile deepened, but her eyes searched his. "How was the flight?"

"Good. Quiet. Fenrys ran himself half to death. I think he needed it."

She took a deep breath and stepped toward the bath, lowering herself into the fragrant water with a soft sigh. Then she looked up at him, a glint of mischief returning to her weary expression. “I heated the water,” she murmured. “Thought you might want to join me.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

He stripped away his shirt, boots, and pants, and joined her in the steaming bath. Soon they were both in the steaming bath, her between his legs, back resting against his chest, his arms loosely draped around her waist. The heat soothed his sore muscles, but more than that, it was her presence--her solid, breathing, living presence--that steadied him.

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats, the warm water easing muscles still tense from battle.

He took the cloth from her fingers and reached for the bowl of warm water on the side. “Lean back,” he said softly. “Let me wash your hair.”

She obeyed without protest, tilting her head as he poured water over her scalp, the golden strands turning to molten sunlight. He lathered her hair gently, massaging her scalp with careful fingers, and when her body finally melted fully against his, he knew the tension had started to ebb.

She leaned back against his chest, her wet hair trailing over his skin. "Tell me about the flight. About the view."

Rowan did, describing the glinting lakes below, the wind carving hollows through the passes, the way the sky had looked endless.

Aelin closed her eyes and listened, her body slowly relaxing in his arms. Rowan held her a little tighter, anchoring her here, in this moment.

He rinsed the suds from her hair and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. “And what about you?”

“I’m… managing.” A pause. “Aedion and I met with Darrow today. Things are going to be tight, but we're going to be alright. We talked about food supplies, rebuilding, finances. The castle will need months of repairs, maybe more. But they’re prioritizing the infirmary and kitchens first. And the great hall and throne room for the coronation.”

“We also discussed Rifthold. The royal vaults and the relics taken from Terrasen. I’m meeting with Dorian soon. I want to bring them all home.”

Rowan ran his hands down her arms, anchoring her to him. “You should demand restitution.”

That made her turn her head slightly, enough to glance at him. “You think so?”

“They bled your kingdom dry. They desecrated your institutions, your people. Peace doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t happen. Dorian will understand.”

She considered that, her gaze growing distant. “I want peace to last. But… yes. I’ll think on it.”

They sat in silence for a while longer, letting the heat and quiet settle between them like a balm. He helped her from the bath, wrapping her in a towel and drying her hair with reverent care. She did the same for him, their movements slow and familiar, domestic in a way that was new for them both.

When they returned to the bedroom, dinner had been delivered. They ate in front of the hearth, enjoying their first meal alone together in some time.

Later, as they slipped into the bed, Rowan curled his body around hers. Her breathing slowed, her fingers tangling with his beneath the blankets.

“I love you, Fireheart,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Her only answer was to turn onto her back and press a line of kisses along his jaw.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, its glow bathing the room in soft gold. 

She looked up at him, and he caught a flicker in her eyes--soft, but full of need. Not the desperate, frayed kind that had filled their earlier nights. No, this was calmer. But no less deep.

Rowan didn’t speak as she laid a hand on his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. He laid his hand over hers, then leaned down to kiss her. Slow. Unhurried. As if they had all the time in the world.

Her hands slid around his neck, his around her waist. He deepened the kiss as she rolled on top of him, melting against him, every part of her seeking warmth, connection--reassurance.

Their lovemaking was different tonight. Slower. A quiet offering of touch and skin, of lips and hands learning each other. There was no rush, no frenzy. Just her--arching above him, whispering his name like a tether to the world.

He thought, as he held her afterward, of how easily nightmares haunted her. Of how often he’d woken to the sound of her cries, the sharp intake of breath, the way she clawed her way back from the dark.

He brushed her hair back from her brow, pressed a kiss there, and whispered, “I’m here.”

Aelin murmured something he couldn’t make out, already halfway to sleep, curled against him, her body loose and warm.

And as the fire dwindled to embers, Rowan watched over her--not because she needed a guard, but because she was his heart.

And he would not let the dark take her again.

Aelin

The stone table was cold beneath her body. Always cold.

The darkness never shifted, never brightened. There was no time here, only the agony between the moments.

Aelin's wrists ached, raw from the chains, though she'd long since stopped struggling against them. Her body had forgotten comfort. It knew only pain.

The iron mask was back. She could feel it--tight around her face and head. Her magic, her fire, her voice--gone.

And Cairn’s voice--gods, that voice--slithered through the shadows.

“You were always going to break, girl.”

Aelin didn’t speak. Speaking only brought more pain. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor. On the blood. Her blood.

From somewhere behind, a snarl. Low. Animal.

She turned her head--slowly, carefully--and there he was. Fenrys. Not as a male, but a wolf, his white fur stained with old blood. His onyx eyes locked on hers.

He blinked. Four blinks. I am here. I am with you.

The tears sprang without warning, blurring the vision of him. She wanted to speak, to call his name, but her throat was raw and dry. The iron mask suffocated her.

She was so tired.

She wanted it to end. Not for vengeance. Not for glory. Just to make it stop.

But she couldn’t die. Not yet. The gods needed her. The world needed her.

Her friends--Rowan--he needed her.

Cairn stepped forward again, a glint of amusement in his blade.

“Tell me again,” he purred, “how you will save them. Tell me how many more pieces I have to carve away before your precious courage breaks.”

Her hands curled into fists.

And still, Fenrys blinked. I am here. I am with you.

That one thread--his presence--was the only reason she didn’t shatter. The only reason her soul hadn’t turned to ash in that place.

But gods, she wanted to surrender. She wanted to let the darkness take her, wanted to believe her death would make it all stop.

And still… she held on.

For Terrasen. For her friends.

For Rowan.

She woke with a scream trapped in her throat.

Air. She needed air.

Her body lurched upright in bed, drenched in sweat, breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. Her hands shot out, grasping for cold stone, rough chains, the feel of bloodied iron biting into her wrists.

But she found only silk sheets.

Too soft. Too wrong.

Her breath came faster. Her pulse thundered in her ears. A trick. It had to be a trick. She’d been here before, waking in a bed too fine, surrounded by comforts she hadn’t earned, hadn’t deserved--not when Maeve had used illusions to unravel her. To get the keys.

The room blurred at the edges, too quiet, too dim. Not real. Her mind screamed it.

She threw off the covers, her hands shaking as she pressed them to her face, then her arms, then the mattress. Testing, questioning. There had been pain in the dream--no, not a dream, it hadn’t felt like one. The iron mask had been on her face, and Cairn’s voice had echoed in her ears. Fenrys had been there with her. She’d been back in that room. Alone. Hopeless.

“Aelin.”

Was the voice real?

Her head snapped toward the sound, her eyes wide, wild. Rowan was sitting up beside her, already reaching for her. No armor, no weapons. Bare-chested, eyes lined with sleep but flooded with concern.

“Where are we?” Her voice came out hoarse. Small. “Is this--am I still--?”

Rowan gently took her hand in both of his. “You’re in Orynth. In the guest chambers. You’re safe.”

She flinched.

Safe. The word scraped against the walls of her mind. She wanted to believe it-- gods , she wanted to--but her gaze darted around the room. Too opulent. Too calm. Her instincts screamed that it was all a façade.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “It could be a trick. Another trick. I don’t know!”

She twisted, trying to get out of bed, trying to run from it before it shifted, cracked open, and revealed her cage beneath. But Rowan caught her wrist.

“Hey. Look at me.” His voice was steady, calm--but firm. “It’s real, Aelin. I swear it. This--” he lifted her hand to his chest, pressing it flat against the steady thud of his heart, “--this is real.”

The rhythm beneath her palm was strong. Unyielding.

She stared down at her hand as if seeing it for the first time.

“I thought…” she rasped. “I thought it was a trick. That I was still in Doranelle. That everything since… since the chains, the keys, the gods--was some twisted illusion she made.”

“It’s not,” he whispered, pulling her into his arms. “It’s over. You made it out. We won the war. Erawan and Maeve are gone forever. I promise, Fireheart.”

Her fingers clutched his hand. Her chest still heaved, every breath a battle. “I could feel the mask on my face. That horrid iron in my blood. Hear her voice. And his. I wanted to die. I thought I was back there, and I didn’t want to keep going. Not again. Not one more second.”

Rowan just held her. Let her fall apart, let her tremble against his chest.

She clung to him like he was her only tether to the world.

And maybe he was.

“I saw Fenrys,” she murmured. “He blinked at me, in the dream. He was still in his wolf form. Still trapped. He told me he was there, that I wasn’t alone. But I was. I was so alone.”

“You’re not alone now.” Rowan brushed her hair back, kissed her temple. “You’ll never be alone again.”

Slowly, breath by breath, the room began to make sense again. The walls didn’t shift. The floor didn’t drop away. The moonlight stayed silver. She began to recognize the faint scent of pine and snow that always lingered around Rowan.

Real.

He was real.

She let him lie back with her, let him pull the blankets up around them, her back to his chest, his arms like armor around her. She stared into the quiet room, still shaken, but no longer terrified.

It might take time. Weeks, months, longer. But she would keep waking up with him next to her.

And that would be real.

They lay in the silence, Rowan’s arms wrapped around her like a promise. His breathing had slowed, calm and steady against her hair, but sleep hadn’t found her yet. The nightmare still clung to her like smoke.

She stared at the silver-lit ceiling, her fingers twitching slightly where they rested against the linen sheet.

“I can still feel it,” she whispered.

Rowan stirred behind her, shifting only enough to press a soft kiss to her shoulder. “What?”

“The mask. The stone table. That room.” She swallowed.

He didn’t tell her to forget it. He didn’t say it was over, or that she was safe now. He simply touched her--lightly, tenderly--like she was something worth holding, worth loving.

“I want to feel something else,” she murmured. “I want to feel now. Not then. Not her.”

Rowan didn’t speak. But he rose behind her, bracing himself on one elbow to look down at her. His fingers tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Are you sure?”

The words were soft. Careful.

She nodded. “Make me remember this. This moment. You. Me. Nothing else.”

He kissed her then, and it wasn’t hurried. Wasn’t hungry. Just quiet and reverent and real.

His lips brushed hers once, twice--like he was reminding her where she was, who she was. His hand slid up her ribs, not demanding but steady, his thumb skimming her skin in a soothing rhythm that made her shiver--not from fear, but from pleasure.

The kind of feeling that wasn’t survival or pain or defiance.

The kind of feeling that meant she was alive.

She turned toward him, their bodies pressing together, breath warming the space between their mouths. Her fingers traced the edge of his jaw, the line of his neck, grounding herself in the solidness of him.

Rowan touched her with reverence, his hand skating over her waist, her hip, then back again. Each kiss was an anchor. Each caress a quiet vow.

He whispered her name against her throat as he gently moved over her. “You’re here. With me.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “With you.”

And as he moved inside her, slowly, gently, his hands steadying her hips, his mouth finding hers again, she let the past slip away.

Let the nightmare melt under the warmth of his skin and the love in his eyes.

Let herself remember that she had survived.

And that she was no longer alone.

“You are here. With me,” he repeated. “I’m yours. And I love you. I came for you. I found you. Fireheart.”

Rowan’s movements were slow and sure, never rushed. His touch was gentle but grounding, each stroke a reminder that she was flesh and blood--not a broken thing in chains.

Aelin arched into him, gasping softly at the sheer relief of it--the safety, the closeness, the way her body came alive under his hands. Her fingers clutched his back as sensation built steadily, her heart beating not with fear, but with anticipation. Pleasure.

She felt raw and open and whole, all at once.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, not from pain or grief, but from the immensity of being seen. Being cherished.

“I love you,” she whispered, voice shaking.

Rowan kissed her cheek, her temple, her lips again. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Their rhythm grew deeper, faster, and as the pleasure swept through her, she clung to him--not to escape the past, but to be present in this.

When it was over, they lay together tangled in sheets and quiet breath, the room still bathed in moonlight.

She stared at the ceiling again. But this time, it was only a ceiling.

Aelin exhaled, long and slow. Her body felt warm, sated. Her soul... less heavy.

And this time, when she closed her eyes, sleep found her.

Chapter Text

The sun was still low in the sky when Aelin padded into the smaller of the castle's dining chambers, a pot of hot tea already waiting for her. Rowan had still been asleep when she awoke, and she decided to slip out and let him get some rest. The scents of fresh bread, honeyed oats, and spiced apple compote filled the air, a welcome comfort after the night she'd had. She had barely poured herself a cup of tea when Elide slipped into the room, her dark hair swept into a simple braid, eyes bright despite the early hour.

Aelin smiled warmly and rose to hug her. "You’re up early."

Elide grinned and sat beside her. "I could say the same to you. I’m planning to help Yrene and the healers again today. Did you sleep?"

Aelin paused, then gave a small nod. "Eventually."

“I still have nightmares too,” Elide replied. “About Morath, about my uncle.”

Aelin reached for her hand, giving it a squeeze.

“Well, you need your rest,” Elide went on. “Especially this week."

Aelin arched a brow. "This week?"

Elide nodded. “Darrow has finally set the date for your coronation," Elide said with a pointed look. "It's in six days."

Aelin groaned and leaned back in her chair. "Gods. That’s soon."

"Well, that's why you have me," Elide said, lifting a steaming mug of tea. "I’ve already spoken with a few local dressmakers. There's one in particular--Madame Severine--who made dresses for our mothers before. She was heartbroken when the castle fell, but she stayed in Orynth and would be honored to make your coronation dress."

Aelin blinked. "She’s still alive?"

"Very much so. And very spry. She cried when she heard you were back."

Aelin felt the lump rise in her throat but managed to smile. "All right. You’re in charge of the dress."

Elide smirked. "I already am. Although you’ll need to go see her for measurements. And I’m taking over the throne room too. It needs to be repaired and redecorated before the ceremony. I figured you’d want it restored in Terrasen’s colors and with your family’s sigil prominently displayed."

Aelin reached for her tea, hiding the emotion in her eyes. "Thank you, Elide. That means more than you know."

Elide tilted her head thoughtfully. "I was also thinking--it might be nice to get Lysandra and Evangeline to help with the decorations. Lysandra has an eye for design, and Evangeline... well, it might be good for her to have something pretty to help with."

Aelin laughed. "They’ll both love that. And it would be good for all of us to do something joyful together. Gods know we’ve earned it."

"Then it’s settled," Elide said, taking a bite of honeyed toast. "I’ll coordinate with the staff and workers. You focus on resting, and maybe... figuring out what you want to say in your coronation speech."

Aelin groaned again. "Don’t remind me."

But she smiled, truly smiled, and for the first time in a long time, it stayed.

Later that morning, after breakfast with Elide, Aelin met up with Aedion and together they made their way to a small parlor where Dorian and Chaol were waiting. The four of them greeted one another with quiet, steady familiarity--the kind that only those who had been through hell together could share.

Aelin hugged Dorian first, holding him tightly for a long moment. "You're looking more like a king than ever, Majesty," she teased, pulling back and offering a tired smile. She could tell that having his friend back and healthy was helping Dorian.

Dorian gave a soft huff of laughter. "And you, Queen of Terrasen, are glowing despite everything."

She glanced at Aedion, who exchanged a knowing look with Chaol before they all settled around the table. The sunlight streaming through the windows painted golden patterns across the polished wood, and for a moment, it almost felt like peace.

They caught up briefly, checking in about how they were all recovering from the battle, shared losses, and the odd quiet of a world just beginning to rebuild after war. Then Aelin straightened slightly.

"I wanted to speak with you both about something more formal," she said, her voice clear. "Terrasen and Adarlan have a long history. Now that the kingdoms are at peace, I’d like to begin the work of establishing proper diplomatic relations--an alliance, if you will."

Dorian nodded. "I agree. I’ve been speaking with my Chaol about the same."

Aedion leaned forward. "To that end, we wanted to request the return of certain items that were taken from Terrasen over the past decade--particularly royal relics and texts. Things that belonged to the palace, to our people."

Dorian gave a solemn nod. "We will look into what’s still in the royal vaults when we return to Rifthold. Many of those things were hoarded by my father. If they’re still there, they will be returned."

Aelin inclined her head. "Thank you, Dorian."

There was a brief pause. Then Aelin met Dorian’s gaze again. "There is one more thing, Dorian. I know that Adarlan is rebuilding as well, but Terrasen’s cities and towns--our capital--suffered greatly during the war. Our finances were decimated by your father for the ten years Terrasen was subjugated to Adarlanian rule. If Adarlan is in any position to offer rebuilding aid--financial support, supplies, craftsmen--I would be grateful."

Dorian exhaled slowly and nodded. "You’re right. I’ll do what I can. I’ll speak with my council and see what’s possible. We have a debt to pay--not just to you, but to many of the kingdoms on this continent."

Aelin's throat tightened with emotion. She nodded. "Thank you."

“It’s not urgent,” she added, “but soon we will have to discuss what to do about Melisande. I do not wish to be a conqueror. But they knowingly allied with Morath. Ansel’s forces hold the capital. It should be returned to self-governance now that the war is over, but I think we will need to hold them accountable for their treachery.”

Dorian and Chaol nodded. “I agree,” Dorian replied. “Let’s meet with Ansel and draw up a plan. Melisande should contribute to restitution efforts to Terrasen and other formerly conquered nations. And I think we should demand new leadership before the kingdom is released from Ansel’s hold.”

After the business concluded, the mood slowly lightened. Aelin leaned back in her chair and let out a quiet sigh. "Do you remember that time Fleetfoot got caught in the library? The librarian was so vexed."

Dorian laughed. "I think Fleetfoot made the royal archivist weep with rage."

“I miss Fleetfoot,” Aelin said. “I can’t wait to go and get her from the Faliq’s. I think she’ll like it here.”

Aedion grinned, relaxing for the first time since they’d sat down. "Gods, it’s strange to talk like this. Like we’re... just people again."

"Maybe we need more mornings like this," Dorian said softly. "More reminders of who we were before." He looked up at Aedion. “I don’t know how you stomach it, Aedion. I hope I never see another battle for as long as I live.”

They all nodded in silent agreement. Then out of nowhere, Aelin snorted.

“I still can’t believe what a badass you are, Dorian,” she said. “I never would have guessed you had it in you when we first met for that competition. That you would go to Morath, trick *Maeve* and blow the whole place up. Holy rutting gods, I’m impressed, Dorian. I really am.”

“Well, I couldn’t let you have all the fun,” he smirked. 

“But I get it,” Aelin continued. “I’ve had enough excitement for a lifetime. I’m ready for a nice long stretch of peace. Maybe a vacation. And a lot of chocolate cake.”

At that, Chaol snorted. “What is it with you and chocolate cake?”

Aedion reached out and placed a hand on Aelin’s shoulder, giving her a squeeze. He could tell she was trying. They all were. Trying for some levity and normalcy.

After they said goodbye to Chaol and Dorian, Aelin walked with Aedion. The halls of Orynth Castle echoed with the rhythm of hammers, the murmur of voices, and the clinking of glass and debris being swept up. Sunlight streamed through tall, dust-streaked windows, warming the stone walls as Aelin and Aedion walked side by side, their boots softened by construction dust.

Aelin tilted her head toward the ceiling, watching a pair of workers on scaffolding replace cracked molding with steady, precise care. "It’s strange," she murmured, "to see it like this--half-ruined and half-alive."

Aedion gestured to a set of polished wooden doors newly hung at the end of the hall. "We’ve cleared the eastern wing of debris. Most of the structural damage has been assessed, and we’ve prioritized the kitchen and infirmary repairs first."

Aelin nodded thoughtfully. "Smart. Those are what we need right now most of all."

They turned a corner, stepping aside as a team of young laborers hauled timber through the corridor. Aelin offered them a brief nod of thanks. She could see the strain in their shoulders, the dirt on their clothes. But also the determination in their eyes.

"Darrow’s been...surprisingly efficient," Aedion added, almost reluctantly. "He’s coordinating the staffing efforts for the palace. Rehiring old stewards and maids where possible, bringing in new ones from loyal families who stayed out of Adarlan’s reach."

Aelin raised an eyebrow. "Darrow?"

"Yep," Aedion said dryly. "He was key to getting Terrasen through the occupation, even with the limited resources we had. He’s the one making this all happen. The kingdom needs a functioning palace."

They paused in a grand hallway with tall, arched windows overlooking the garden terraces. The once-elegant hedges were scorched, but workers were already out there, pruning and clearing debris.

"We’ve started on the city, too," Aedion continued. "The main aqueducts were damaged in the siege, but we’ve got masons rebuilding them. Markets are reopening. We’ve sent grain from the stores to feed the residents."

Aelin stepped to one of the windows, resting her hand on the sill. She watched a child dart between two carts below, laughing as he chased a scruffy dog. A small, fierce smile touched her lips.

"You’ve done well, Aedion," she said quietly. "All of this--it wouldn’t be happening without you."

He shrugged, a bit uncomfortable. "We had to start somewhere. Terrasen won’t rebuild itself."

She turned to face him fully. "Still. Thank you. For keeping it all moving. For holding it together when I couldn’t."

His voice softened. "You were fighting for us. For all of this. I was just keeping the hearth warm."

They resumed walking. They made their way through the castle, the late morning light spilling in golden beams across the floor. The clamor of activity was everywhere. Murmurs and shouted orders echoed through the corridors, a chorus of rebuilding that rang with determination.

Aedion walked beside her, pointing out areas that had already been repaired. "The eastern tower’s roof is nearly done. We’re prioritizing the sections with structural damage, then moving on to interior restoration. The throne room repairs are underway--Elide’s overseeing the finishing touches." He grinned at the mention of her.

"And the city?" Aelin asked, gaze straying to the window where she could glimpse rooftops and scaffolding.

"Coming along. Slowly. We’ve had offers of help from neighboring villages, and a few merchants are returning. There’s still fear, but there’s also hope."

They turned down a wide hallway, the stones beneath their boots worn smooth with age. Aelin could feel history pressing in all around her.

They arrived at the entrance to the royal residence wing--ornate double doors that had once guarded the heart of the royal family’s private life. Aelin hesitated before pushing them open. Dust hung thick in the air.

Her boots echoed softly as she walked down the hallway, stopping in front of a door that had once been hers. She turned the handle and stepped inside.

Gone was the room she remembered.

The pale walls had been painted a dull gray, the curtains replaced with heavy Adarlanian brocade. Her childhood furniture--delicate carved pieces her mother had chosen--was long gone. The space felt colder, emptier.

Aelin stood there for a long moment, taking it in. Aedion stepped in behind her, silent.

"Adarlan officials likely stayed here during the occupation," he said softly.

She nodded, her jaw tight. "Of course."

They left the room, continuing down the hall. Aelin paused again in front of a familiar set of doors--the suite that had belonged to her parents.

Inside, workers were in the midst of clearing everything out. Chairs and tables were being carried out. The chandelier that hung precariously from the ceiling was being repaired. One of the fireplaces had collapsed in on itself.

Aedion looked to her, his voice gentle. "We’re preparing it for you and Rowan."

Aelin blinked. Her throat tightened. "This was their suite."

"And now it’s the queen’s suite," Aedion said. "Yours."

Aelin stepped forward slowly, her fingers brushing the mantle, the window frame, the curve of the archway leading to the sleeping chambers. She could picture Rowan’s clothes in the wardrobe. Could picture a fire crackling as they curled up before it.

“We’ve located your trunks from Adarlan,” Aedion told her. “The ones from your suite at the glass castle and from your apartment. They’ll be here by the end of the day. You can probably start staying here as soon as the new bed arrives.”

She nodded and turned to face the hallway again, gaze drifting to the doors across from the suite.

"Those rooms," she murmured. "They’ll be for our children one day."

Aedion said nothing, letting her words settle.

Aelin took a breath. "But for now, have them made into guest rooms. There’s time yet."

He nodded. "Of course."

Aelin looked back into the suite again, her eyes lingering on the high windows, the carved stonework, the lingering shadows. “I didn’t think I’d be here for this part,” she said quietly. “There were so many moments when I thought I wouldn’t survive, that I wouldn’t get to… to come home. To have this.”

Aedion’s expression softened. “I know,” he said, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

She kept her eyes on the space in front of her. “And Rowan--I never let myself imagine we’d get forever. I didn’t think we’d be allowed to want something like that.”

A small smile curved her lips, fragile and wondering. “But now… it’s hitting me. We will. We’ll have it. Maybe not perfect, maybe not easy, but… we’ll have our happy ending. Eventually.”

Aedion’s voice was quiet, steady. “You earned it. Both of you.”

Aelin swallowed against the knot in her throat and nodded. “You do too, Aedion. You deserve every happiness.”

They stood there in the hushed stillness, the heartbeat of their past and future echoing all around them.

Chapter Text

Rowan woke to the hush of morning light spilling through the guest chamber windows, golden and soft across the stone floor. The world was quiet except for the even breath of the female beside him.

He and Aelin had made their way back to their guest chambers early the previous night, both still recovering from the lingering exhaustion of battle and months of sleepless nights. They were able to enjoy dinner in front of the hearth in their bedroom again, just the two of them, and had immediately crawled into bed.

Aelin lay curled against his chest, her hair tangled across his skin, her fingers still loosely resting on his ribs. She had slept soundly through the night. Peacefully. And Rowan knew it was no small thing.

His hand slowly traced a path along her back, featherlight. He could still feel the echo of the night before in his body--in his blood. The feel of her, the way she’d clung to him, trusted him with her pain and her pleasure.

He would make love to her every night if she wanted. Every night for the rest of their lives. There would never be enough of her--never a moment when he wasn’t aching for her touch, her taste, the fierce, unyielding fire of her spirit. But it wasn’t just the physical. Gods, it never had been.

It was the way she held him even as she slept, the way her body knew his as intimately as he knew hers. It was the way her heart trusted his--still, after everything.

He brushed a kiss to her temple, inhaling the familiar scent of jasmine and embers and something uniquely her.

They had fought so hard to get here. Had lost so much. But here she was, warm and breathing beside him, and Rowan knew--he would spend every remaining day making sure she never had to face the darkness alone again.

Aelin shifted slightly, nuzzling closer in her sleep. Rowan tightened his arm around her and let himself stay like that for a little while longer.

Just holding her. Just being hers.

After a while Aelin stirred against him, a soft sound escaping her lips as her body stretched beneath the sheets. Rowan’s eyes opened fully as she blinked up at him, sleep still clinging to her lashes.

“Morning,” she murmured, her voice rough with sleep.

“Good morning,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face and leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “How are you feeling?”

She took a long breath, then nodded slowly. “Better. Still a little sleepy but gods, I think I slept better last night than I have in… Well I can’t remember the last time I slept soundly.”

“Mhm,” he said, pulling her closer to rest on his chest. “No bad dreams?”

She thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. Wow. That’s a relief.”

“What do you want to do today?”

“I think I’m ready to re-engage with the outside world again,” she said. “I’d like to greet the soldiers, visit the healing wards, check in with our allies. I haven’t spent any time with the witches, or Ilias or Ansel. And my cousin Galan is here and I’ve barely met him. Plus there’s Nesryn and the southern continent royals. And then there are all the Terrasen Fae who want to return. I need to start working with them on plans for resettlement.”

He arched a brow. “You sure you’re feeling up to all that?”

“Maybe not all in one day,” she said with a smile, “but I need to start seeing people. Our people.” Her fingers curled around his arm as if she wasn’t quite ready to let go of the quiet yet. 

“You don’t owe them anything, not yet,” Rowan said gently, though pride warmed his chest at her determination.

“I know. But I want to,” she replied. “I want them to see that their queen is here. That she’s standing.”

Rowan pressed a kiss to her forehead, then pulled away just enough to rise. “Then let’s start the day right. Breakfast?”

Aelin nodded and rolled toward the edge of the bed. “I hope the kitchens still serve that berry jam I used to like.”

Together, they dressed in comfortable clothes--simple pants and tunics, their armor still resting nearby but not needed this morning. Rowan laced the ties of her boots as she sat on the edge of the bed, and Aelin didn’t stop him. Her fingers carded once through his hair, soft and affectionate.

“Will you check in on Fenrys today?” Aelin asked him. “I’m worried about him.”

“I am too,” he replied. “Yeah, I’ll find him. It might help if we put him in charge of something. Think about what you might want him to do.”

Aelin nodded.

By the time they made their way through the halls toward the kitchens, the castle was already alive with motion--footsteps echoing in distant corridors, the scent of baking bread drifting through the air.

Rowan reached for her hand as they rounded the corner toward the warmth and chatter of the castle’s heart.

Whatever this day held, they would face it together.

When they pushed open the door to the kitchens, warmth and light greeted them--and the sight of four familiar faces.

Aedion was seated at the long wooden table, a mug in one hand and a half-eaten piece of bread in the other. Lysandra sat beside him, a braid neatly coiled over one shoulder, while Evangeline perched across from them, a smear of jam bright on her chin. Ren Allsbrook leaned against the counter nearby, sipping from a steaming mug.

Aelin grinned. "Well, isn’t this a royal breakfast gathering."

Evangeline turned and brightened immediately. "Aelin! Rowan!"

Rowan nodded in greeting, and Aelin leaned down to kiss Evangeline’s temple before sliding onto the bench beside her.

"You’re up early," Aedion remarked with a teasing lift of his brow.

"Could say the same about you," Aelin replied, grabbing a slice of bread and reaching for the jam.

Lysandra passed her a plate. "We were discussing the best way to organize the guest rooms. Evangeline has very strong opinions about color schemes."

Evangeline nodded solemnly. "No gray. It’s boring."

Ren chuckled from the counter. "She already vetoed half the fabric samples we brought in yesterday."

Aelin laughed. "Agreed. We’ll make sure the decorators get your input. You’ll have to tell us which rooms you want for yourselves, once things get settled down.”

Rowan helped himself to a mug of tea and settled beside Aelin. For a few moments, there was only the clatter of utensils, the rustle of bread being torn, and the comforting hum of kitchen life around them.

It felt good. Natural. Like a new kind of beginning.

Aelin looked at her cousin, her friend, and the little girl who had become her family. She glanced across at Ren. "How are you holding up, Ren?" she asked gently.

Ren exhaled, his fingers tightening slightly around his mug. "I’m managing," he said. "Not looking forward to going back home. Allsbrook Castle is going to be a very lonely place without him."

Lysandra reached across the table and touched his arm. "At least you’ll have some friendly new neighbors soon," she said, her voice soft.

Ren offered a faint smile, but his eyes still carried the weight of loss. Aelin leaned in slightly, her expression open and earnest. "We’ll help however we can. Just say the word. Your grandfather was a good man. I’m sorry he didn’t get to live to see Terrasen free. You both worked so hard for that for all those years."

"Thank you," Ren said. And the way he said it--the quiet depth behind it--said everything else he couldn’t.

As the meal wound down, Aelin glanced over at Aedion. "I think I’m ready to greet the soldiers today. I want to thank them."

Aedion nodded, setting down his mug. "I’ll arrange it. They’ll appreciate hearing it from you."

He hesitated, then added, "We’ll also need to start thinking about who you want as Captain of the Royal Guard. The palace will need someone permanent in that role."

Aelin glanced at Rowan, then back at Aedion. "Do you have someone in mind?"

Aedion nodded. "Kyllian. He’s my second in command of the Bane. He’s loyal, disciplined, and respected. He’d be an excellent choice."

Aelin exchanged a look with Rowan, then nodded. "Set up a meeting with him. I’d like to speak with him myself."

"Of course," Aedion said, already planning how to make it happen.

They finished their breakfast with quiet conversation and occasional laughter, the kind that came only when people had been to the brink together. 

The morning sunlight slanted low across the castle corridors as Aelin and Rowan made their way toward the makeshift healing ward after breakfast. The air was brisk, fresh with the scent of pine and freshly fallen snow, and their footsteps echoed softly in the halls. Though the castle still bore signs of the siege--scorch marks on walls, shattered archways awaiting repair--life was returning. Slowly, steadily.

The healing ward had been set up in what had once been a formal receiving room, its wide floor now lined with cots and long tables bearing healing supplies. The scent of herbs and tonic oils filled the air, mingling with the faint, metallic tang of blood.

Yrene stood near one of the long tables, her golden-brown hair braided back tightly, her sleeves rolled past her elbows as she sorted vials into neat rows. Across the room, Elide assisted a healer in changing the bandages on a young man’s shoulder, her movements deft and careful.

Yrene looked up as Aelin and Rowan entered, her expression brightening with welcome. "You’re just in time to miss the worst of the morning chaos," she said, offering them a tired smile. 

“How are you, Yrene,” Aelin asked, greeting the woman with a firm embrace.

"Good. Most of the soldiers who came in during the battle have been moved to recovery areas."

Aelin scanned the ward, noting the emptier cots and the general air of calmer industry. "That’s good news. How are they holding up?"

"Better every day," Yrene said, wiping her hands with a cloth. "We still have a few with deeper injuries who need daily monitoring, but the rest are well on their way. We’ve begun focusing more of our efforts now on those who were infested."

Aelin's throat tightened. "You mean the soldiers who were taken by the Valg."

Yrene nodded solemnly. "We’ve been successful with some, others… we're not sure yet how much of them is left. But we’re trying. Some of the soldiers want to fight it. That matters."

Rowan crossed his arms. "Let us know what you need. If you need more hands, or more space. We can move supplies from other wings."

"We might, soon," Yrene said. "But for now, we’re stable. Elide’s been helping us triage and track patient progress."

Elide came over just then, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I was just telling one of the scouts that he needs to stop trying to sneak out of bed to train," she said wryly. "But they’re all eager to return to duty."

Aelin smiled softly. "Tell him the Queen of Terrasen commands him to rest. That might help."

Elide laughed. "It might terrify him into compliance."

They stayed a few more minutes, asking after specific soldiers they knew and checking on the ward’s inventory. Aelin watched the rhythm of care and kindness in motion around her and felt a flicker of peace.

Even in the shadow of all they had lost, they were healing.

The midday sun gleamed against the castle walls as Aelin and Rowan followed Aedion through the training grounds beyond the western gate. The stone path wound between barracks and open fields where soldiers had once prepared for war. Now, the grounds buzzed with a different kind of energy: repairs, drills, and the slow, steady rhythm of rebuilding.

The Bane stood assembled in the wide courtyard beyond the stables, lined in perfect formation. Hundreds of warriors--Terrasen's finest--stood at attention, the sunlight catching on polished armour and gleaming blades. Faces familiar and new watched as Aedion led their queen and king-consort to stand before them.

Aedion raised his hand, and silence fell.

"Soldiers of Terrasen," he said, his voice ringing clear. "You fought with honor and heart. Many of you bled for this land, and many more stood firm when hope was all but gone. Today, it is my privilege to present to you the Queen and King-Consort of Terrasen, Aelin and Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius.”

Aelin stepped forward, Rowan a quiet presence beside her. She looked out at the rows of soldiers, at the faces weathered by battle, and felt the weight of their loyalty settle in her chest.

"I stand before you today not as a queen giving orders--but as one deeply, eternally grateful. You fought for Terrasen, for our people. You held the line when all hope seemed lost. Many of you lost comrades, friends, family. And yet you endured. You did not break."

She paused, letting the silence settle. Then, softer: "We owe you everything."

There was no cheer, no roar. Just a silent, powerful ripple of pride and emotion across the soldiers’ faces. Rowan stepped up beside her.

"You stood for Terrasen when it had no crown. You carried our people through darkness and flame. I will spend every breath I have making sure that your sacrifices were not in vain."

Rowan stepped beside her. "I fought beside many of you. I saw your courage firsthand.” Rowan paused and placed his fist over his heart. “You have my respect, always."

Aedion added, his voice quiet but intense, "You are the heart of Terrasen. And now, you are its future."

The Bane raised their fists to their chests in salute, a silent vow of loyalty and strength.

Aelin nodded, her throat tight. She didn’t need to say more. Not today. They had heard her heart.

After the gathering, Aelin and Rowan followed Aedion to a small room adjacent to the barracks. Waiting there was a tall, broad-shouldered soldier with close-cropped dark hair and a scar down his left cheek. His bearing was rigid but calm, his eyes steady.

"Kyllian," Aedion said with a nod, "you know Aelin, and this is Rowan."

Kyllian bowed, one hand over his heart. "Your Majesties."

Aelin smiled faintly. "We’ve heard excellent things about you."

Rowan added, "Aedion speaks highly of your leadership and loyalty."

Kyllian straightened. "It’s an honor to serve Terrasen."

Aelin looked him in the eye. "We’d like to offer you the position of Captain of the Royal Guard."

Kyllian blinked, stunned for only a moment before his posture straightened further. "I would be honored to accept."

Rowan stepped closer. "You’ll be given full authority to assemble a team of guards, to oversee the security of the royal family and the security within the palace walls. We trust your judgment."

Kyllian inclined his head. "I won’t let you down. I’ll begin assembling a watch rotation and evaluating the castle’s weak points."

Aelin smiled. "Welcome aboard, Captain."

He bowed again, his voice firm. "Thank you, Your Majesty. It will be my privilege to serve."

With that, Kyllian departed to begin his duties, and Aelin exchanged a look with Rowan. The sun streamed through the window, casting golden light across the worn map table.

Another piece of Terrasen’s future, falling into place.

The castle halls were quieter than usual as Aelin and Rowan walked side by side, hands twined together, the echo of their boots the only sound as they made their way toward the great dining hall. After their meeting with Kyllian, they had agreed on a simple thing: they needed a break. A moment to breathe, to eat, to simply exist without decisions or orders.

The scent of roasted meats and fresh bread reached them before they even opened the doors. As they stepped inside, the warmth and light of the dining hall greeted them. Platters of food--fruit, cheese, stew, and thick slices of buttered bread--covered the long oak table. Several people were already seated, deep in conversation over shared meals.

Among them, at the center table, sat Ansel of Briarcliff.

The red-haired warrior was surrounded by a handful of Crochan witches, all of them nursing steaming mugs and half-empty plates. Her armor had been traded for a simple tunic and trousers, but even at ease, Ansel carried herself with the presence of a seasoned commander.

Aelin felt her heart clench. She hadn’t seen Ansel in days. Not since the last of the battle fires had been doused.

Ansel looked up as they approached. Her eyes brightened slightly. "Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence."

Aelin snorted softly. "We heard the food was good."

Rowan gave Ansel a respectful nod, and the two of them took seats beside her.

For a few minutes, they ate in comfortable silence. The witches continued their soft conversation at the other side of the table, giving the three of them space.

Aelin set down her cup. Her voice was quieter when she said, "I heard about your men."

Ansel’s smile faltered. She looked down at her plate.

"I wanted to tell you personally," Aelin continued, her voice low, steady. "I am so sorry. They fought so bravely. I know what they meant to you."

Ansel swallowed. Her jaw worked slightly before she nodded. "They were the best I had. My brothers."

Aelin reached out, her hand brushing Ansel’s. The red-haired warrior didn’t pull away.

"They died with honor," Rowan said quietly. "And they helped turn the tide."

Ansel nodded again, her eyes glistening now. "I just keep thinking I should have protected them. Should have done more. I don’t know how I’m going to go home without them.”

Aelin rose slightly and pulled Ansel into a tight embrace. The other woman stiffened for only a heartbeat before wrapping her arms around Aelin in return.

"You did everything you could," Aelin whispered. "They knew the risks. And they followed you because they believed in you. Just as I always have."

Ansel drew back, swiping quickly at her eyes. "Don’t make me cry in front of the Crochans. They’ll never let me live it down."

Aelin laughed softly. "Let them. You’ve earned it."

They sat again, and the heaviness in the room eased just a bit. Lunch continued, heavy with the quiet strength of shared grief, and unwavering camaraderie.

After lunch, Aelin decided it was time to show Rowan the royal family’s chambers and check on the progress of the repairs. They made their way through the winding corridors toward the heart of the castle. The halls were alive with the sounds of work--hammering, sweeping, the murmur of craftsmen discussing measurements and fittings.

When they reached the royal suite, Aelin pushed open the grand double doors and stepped inside.

She gasped, stunned.

The repairs were nearly complete. Fresh stone had been set where cracks had once spiderwebbed the walls. New drapes had been hung. The floors had been scrubbed and polished, and sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden light on the newly furnished rooms.

In the bedchamber, a large four-poster bed stood at the center, flanked by elegant furniture. A fire crackled in the hearth.

Aelin stepped toward the closet doors and opened them. Inside, a maid was busy unpacking her trunks--dozens of them--all brought from Adarlan. The maid stopped her work and bowed when she realized who had come into the room.

"From the apartment in Rifthold," Rowan said, standing behind her.

Aelin nodded. Her gaze swept over the neatly folded clothes. "Everything’s here."

She turned to Rowan with a smile. "I think it’s time we moved in."

He grinned and kissed her temple. "Agreed."

Aelin greeted the maid, and asked her to arrange for their belongings to be brought over from the guest chambers. “We plan on being in this room tonight,” she explained, “and going forward.”

Rowan called over one of the workers and asked for a wall in their rooms to be reinforced and converted for weapons storage--racks for swords, hooks for daggers, compartments for bows and arrows.

Aelin laughed. "Of course you’d want a wall for weapons."

He smirked. "We both know we’ll need it."

“Of course we will,” she replied, smiling brightly. “As long as I can have a wall for all my books.”

“Mhm,” he replied. “Won’t the castle have a whole library just for books?” he teased.

Aelin smacked Rowan’s arm playfully. “Of course, but I still want space in our rooms for my favorites .”

Rowan rolled his eyes at her. “I don’t think I want to know.”

Hand in hand, they surveyed the heart of their new home. Their chambers. Their future.

~~~~~

The warm glow of the setting sun spilled through the high windows of the royal chambers as Rowan closed the door behind him. The quiet click echoed softly through the sitting room, and he inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine. Aelin sat curled on a cushioned chair by the hearth, a book in her lap, her golden hair tumbling down her back.

"You’re late," she said without looking up.

Rowan smirked. "You’ll live."

She finally glanced at him and smiled. "I wasn’t waiting on the food."

He leaned down and kissed her gently before joining her at the small table set for two near the fireplace. A tray laden with roasted pheasant, root vegetables, and freshly baked bread sat waiting, steam curling up from the dishes.

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Rowan spoke. "I spent the afternoon with Fenrys."

Aelin looked up with interest. "How is he doing?"

"Better," Rowan said thoughtfully. "He’s been spending time with the Fae refugees who returned with the Wolf Tribe. They’re… different from the Fae of Doranelle. More peaceful. They remember their time in Terrasen, before the occupation."

Aelin’s eyes softened. "What are they planning to do now?"

"Most want to stay. Rebuild lives here. They were born in these parts or have roots they can trace back. Fenrys has grown close with them. I was thinking--" Rowan hesitated, swirling his wine. "Maybe he could take point on working with them. Act as a liaison to the castle. Help with resettlement, organizing where they go and how they integrate."

Aelin’s gaze held his. "That would be perfect. He needs purpose. And they need someone who understands them."

Rowan nodded. "I’ll talk to him tomorrow. He’s already been keeping an informal eye on things, helping them find housing and sharing supplies. Making it official might give him something to anchor himself."

"Good," Aelin said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "Thank you for thinking of it."

Rowan leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. "He introduced me to a few of the Fae--Liora, whose secondary form is a silver lynx. Her stealth is incredible. She once served as a scout in the mountain passes near the border. Then there’s Cael, who has a falcon form and sees farther than just about anyone I’ve ever met. He said he used to fly messages between the mountain villages. And Thalan--he’s old, ancient. His secondary form is a mountain ram, massive. He fought in the old wars and remembers Brannon’s time."

Aelin listened closely, her heart warming at the idea of her kingdom becoming home to these powerful, long-lost kin.

“I have got to meet him!” Aelin exclaimed. “I wonder if he knew Brannon personally. I’d love to know more about him. I was too little when my father and uncle died. I don’t remember any of the stories they passed down about him.”

They finished their meal slowly, the fire crackling beside them, the scent of home wrapping around them like a blanket. Their first evening in their new home, quiet and full of promise. A moment of peace after years of storms.

Chapter Text

The faint dawn light poured through the high windows of the royal bedchamber, soft and golden. Aelin stirred slowly beneath the heavy down covers, the warmth of the bed and Rowan's quiet breathing beside her cocooning her in comfort. She opened her eyes and stared at the intricately carved ceiling above them, the same ceiling she had once stared at as a little girl when she crept into her parents' room after a bad dream.

It was strange, waking up here. In this room. In the place that would be her home for hundreds of years.

Everything about her life had felt like a storm, a whirlwind of motion and fire and steel. From the moment she fled her family’s country manor as a child, to the Assassin’s Guild, to Endovier, to the Glass Castle, then to Wendlyn and back again. Always moving, always fighting, always bracing for the next loss. The last few years had been a cycle of battles and betrayals, victories paid in blood. She had spent so long just trying to survive--never allowing herself to grieve or to think beyond the next fight, the next decision.

And now? Now she was waking up in her parents' chambers, the Queen of Terrasen. With Rowan at her side.

This was it. The beginning of their forever.

Aelin slowly sat up, brushing her hair back from her face as she looked around the familiar yet newly-furnished room. The repairs had been finished, the furniture elegant but understated. It still felt like her parents’ room in some way--the layout, the high arches, the view of the mountains from the windows. But it was hers and Rowan's now. Their life would unfold here.

She had thought it would feel wrong. That sleeping in the space her parents once called theirs would bring nothing but sorrow. But instead, she felt closer to them here. Felt their presence in the stones and sunlight, in the warmth of the bed and the echo of laughter she could almost remember. As if they were watching, approving.

Rowan stirred beside her, reaching out in his sleep until his hand found hers.

Aelin smiled softly and laced her fingers with his.

Yes, this was home now. She was sure that, eventually, her brain would catch up to that fact.

Aelin slid beneath the covers once more, the sheets cool against her bare skin. Beside her, Rowan stirred, the muscles of his chest shifting as he reached out in that half-conscious way of his--seeking her, always seeking her. His arm looped around her waist, and he pulled her to him without a word.

She settled against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. “Couldn’t stay away long,” she murmured, her voice still husky from sleep.

His lips brushed her temple, a smile curling against her skin. “Good,” he said, voice gravelled and deep. “I’d have come looking for you.”

Aelin tilted her head back to meet his gaze. For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was only the silence of the royal suite, the quiet crackle of the fire in the hearth, and the warmth of a world that, finally, was theirs.

Rowan leaned down, his mouth finding her throat with aching gentleness. His kisses were slow, deliberate--trailing from the base of her neck to the hollow behind her ear. Her fingers curled into his hair, anchoring herself to him as his hand slid along her ribs, his thumb brushing over her breast.

She arched into him with a breathless sigh.

The quiet hush of dawn seemed to hold them in a bubble--no duties, no meetings, no decisions to be made. Just skin and warmth and the feeling of being home.

They kissed slowly, as if time was all they had now that the war had ended, now that their next decision wasn’t a matter of life or death. Rowan’s mouth moved over hers with a patience born of adoration, not urgency. His hands, callused and warm, framed her face like something precious. Aelin bit down on his lower lip, her fingers trailing hard along the ridges of his back.

They kissed like fire--growing hotter, bolder, the way a storm gathers over still water. Rowan’s hands roamed with unerring confidence, his body a wall of strength against hers.

Safe.

The word echoed through her. At last. At long, long last, she was safe. And that safety brought with it something wild--unleashed and unapologetic. Her fingers tugged at his hair. 

She didn’t want gentleness now. She wanted to be claimed, to feel the weight of everything they had fought for pressed into her bones.

Rowan growled low in his throat as she arched beneath him, her legs wrapping tightly around his hips. Her mouth found his throat, kissing and biting just enough to make him shudder. She wanted to mark him. Wanted him to wear her on his skin as she would wear the imprint of his teeth, the bruises of his hands.

When he entered her, it was not slow--it was a thrust that made her cry out, her back arching as he filled her completely. She met him with equal force, hips rising to meet each surge with a demanding rhythm. Her nails scraped down his back, hard enough to draw a hiss from his lips. He snarled at her throat, dragging the sharp point of his canines down her neck. 

“Again,” she breathed into his ear, voice rough with hunger. “Harder.”

He gave her what she asked for.

They moved together like twin flames, their bodies colliding with a ferocity that echoed the years of restraint, of denied comfort, of survival. His teeth found the junction of her neck and shoulder, biting down just enough to send a jolt of fire through her. She moaned his name, her voice hoarse and wild, as pleasure built hard and fast between them.

There was no delicacy now--just need and release and the claiming of a future that was finally theirs. His hands gripped her thighs, her waist, her hair. She gave herself over to the rawness of it, to the way his body answered hers like a storm answering the sea.

When she shattered, her cry was muffled as she sank her teeth into his throat, her whole body trembling. Rowan followed with a groan, his teeth biting down on her shoulder, his arms locked tight around her.

Even in the aftermath, their breathing harsh and uneven, they did not pull apart.

Aelin buried her face against his neck, tasting salt and skin and the faint copper tang of Rowan’s blood.

“Mine,” she whispered, her lips against the mark she’d left.

Rowan’s arms tightened. “Always.”

And in the hush that followed--bodies slick with sweat, hearts still racing--they lay tangled in the sheets and each other, marked and marked again. No masks. No walls. 

Only them.

They were home. They were whole. And together, they would face whatever came next.

The fire cracked softly.

Rowan’s voice broke the stillness. “It still feels like a dream. That you’re here. That I’m here. That we made it.”

She nodded against him. “I keep expecting to wake up in a tent, or on a battlefield. To hear a horn, or feel the weight of what’s coming.”

“It already came,” he said. “And we met it.”

Aelin tilted her face up to him. “Do you think they would have believed it? The girl on that rooftop in Varese and the prince of Doranelle?”

Rowan huffed a laugh and brushed a kiss to her brow. “Definitely not.”

Rowan traced lazy circles along her spine. “This,” he said quietly, “is more than I ever wanted.”

She smiled against his skin. “You deserve it, Buzzard.”

He huffed another laugh at the nickname and pulled her closer, the world narrowing to the two of them wrapped in golden light, their city waking just beyond the walls. Terrasen had peace--and so did they.

Outside, the first light of dawn touched the edge of the balcony, gilded the high, arched windows, and finally reached the bed where Terrasen’s queen and king-consort lay, wrapped in each other.

Aelin watched it come, the light of a new day.

It brought no sorrow with it--only promise.

Later, after lying in the quiet a while longer, Aelin rolled to her side, propping her head up with one hand. “We should probably talk about today,” she said.

Rowan opened one eye, amused. “You mean instead of staying in bed all morning?”

She grinned. “As tempting as that is, I have to go into town. I have an appointment with the dressmaker to get fitted for my coronation dress. Elide is going to come with me. That is, unless you want to come.”

Rowan laughed and brushed a hand through her hair, letting it spill like molten gold over his fingers. “As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll pass. Elide will give you better feedback than me, anyway. I’d say you look beautiful no matter what clothing they put on you.”

Aelin laughed brightly. “That’s fine. Honestly, you’d be bored to death.”

“Then I’ll find Fenrys. I’ll organize a lunch with him and some of the Terrasen Fae he’s been spending time with.”

She nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

Rowan kissed her forehead. “We’ll meet back here before lunch? Then we can go together.”

“Deal,” Aelin said.

Rowan made to roll out of bed, but Aelin stopped him. “It’s still pretty early,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “We don’t have to get up just yet,” she said, kissing his shoulder and giving him a small pout. “I might want to show you just how grateful I am,” she said, kissing his chest. “For your unwavering support,” she said, meeting his gaze as she trailed kisses slowly down his ribs and abdomen. 

Rowan’s muscles went taut beneath her as her mouth moved lower, each kiss a silent promise. Aelin felt the heat of his gaze on her, the weight of his stillness--how he watched her like a hawk.

She paused, letting her breath ghost over his skin, then looked up through her lashes. “So grateful…” she whispered again, her voice a breathy thread of silk.

His hand tightened in her hair, not to guide her--never that--but to ground himself. To anchor to her.

Aelin smiled, slow and wicked, then leaned down once more. Her lips brushed the line of his hip, her hands smoothing along his thighs. Every motion was deliberate, every caress one of devotion and power. She wanted him undone--not just by touch, but by love, by trust, by the knowledge that they were finally safe enough to savor each other without fear or urgency.

Rowan’s breath shuddered. His other hand gripped the sheets, knuckles pale.

“You drive me mad, Fireheart,” he growled, voice rough with restraint and awe.

“Good,” she murmured, her mouth continuing its slow, sensual path. “That’s the goal.”

And as the morning sun climbed the sky, spilling gold across the tangled sheets, Aelin reminded him--thoroughly, tenderly, and with exquisite patience--just how deeply she cherished him.

Rowan

Rowan stilled, his muscles taut beneath Aelin’s slow, purposeful touch. Her breath danced across his skin like a fire--one he would gladly burn in forever. They should have risen, dressed, and faced the day. But with her lips brushing lower, her hair spilling over his stomach, the weight of her pretty gaze locked with his, everything else faded into shadow.

Aelin.

He let his head fall back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as her mouth found a new path along his skin, tender and teasing all at once. His hand tightened in her hair to anchor himself. Gods, she was the only thing in the world that ever truly undid him.

A low growl curled from his throat as warmth spiraled through his abdomen, sharp and electrifying. Every flick of her tongue, every press of her lips was a promise, a celebration. Of his body. Of what they’d fought for--what they’d reclaimed together. Peace. Home. 

He opened his eyes again, needing to see her, needing to witness the fierce, fiery female who had turned his immortal life into something he now clung to with both hands. She met his gaze as she moved, full of knowing, full of purpose. The early morning light painted her in shades of gold and shadow.

“Mine,” he rasped, the word more breath than sound.

She smiled in response, sultry and certain, and gods help him, he was lost.

Pleasure surged like a tide through him--slow, building, inevitable. But more than that was the way his heart ached with the sheer love of her. He could face any war, any darkness, so long as she looked at him like that. So long as she stayed.

When her name left his lips again, it wasn’t a plea, or a prayer, or even a request.

It was a promise. That he would give her everything. Again and again and again.

Rowan’s breathing slowed gradually, his hand slipping from her hair to cradle the curve of her cheek as she pressed a final kiss to his hip and then moved up beside him. He opened his arms without a word, and she settled against his chest as if she’d always belonged there. Maybe she had.

The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows on the stone walls, but the warmth hadn’t dimmed in the slightest. Aelin tucked herself into his arms.

“You’re very convincing,” he murmured, voice thick with contentment.

She laughed against his skin. “I have to be. You’re an early riser and a brooding warrior. The odds are stacked against me.”

He smiled, burying his nose in her hair. She smelled like citrus and jasmine and gods, did that scent drive him insane. “I think you’ll find that I’m very…amenable to being convinced.”

Aelin lifted her head, her gaze locking with his. Whatever humor she’d had softened into something quieter, more open. “I don’t want to take this for granted,” she whispered. “Not the quiet. Not the peace. Not you.”

Rowan touched her jaw gently, running his thumb along her soft cheekbone. “Then we won’t. We’ll wake slowly. We’ll fight if we must. We’ll love fiercely. And we’ll never forget what it cost to get here.”

She nodded once and then kissed him--not hungrily, not with urgency, but with love and trust. When they parted, she tucked herself in closer and let out a contented sigh.

Outside the frosted windows, Orynth was still and blanketed in early light. But within the royal chambers, within the cocoon of downy sheets and fire-warmed air, Aelin and Rowan lay entangled--bodies and fates and futures bound.

There were no enemies at the gates. Just the soft, sacred stillness of morning, and the knowledge that they had made it to the other side.

Together.

They lay in the early morning light, both drifting off for a time before rousing again. Then it really was time to face the day. Rowan slipped out of bed and padded across the room to their bathing room, followed moments later by Aelin.

They washed and then dressed side by side, the morning light painting golden streaks across their skin. She did not think she would need them, but since she and Elide would be going into the city, Aelin strapped a few daggers onto a holster around her thigh. Then, hands twined together, they headed down the grand stairwell and into the dining hall for breakfast, ready to begin another day of ruling--and rebuilding--their kingdom together.

Aelin

The breakfast room was quiet that morning when Aelin arrived with Rowan, the scent of fresh bread, hot tea, and roasted coffee curling in the air. Elide was already seated, her braid over one shoulder and her plate piled with strawberries and sweetbread. Beside her, Lorcan dutifully poured Elide’s tea.

Rowan greeted them both with a nod and moved to pour two cups.

“Morning Elide,” Aelin said, dropping into the seat beside her. “Lorcan. Don’t you look thrilled to be up bright and early.”

Lorcan didn’t bother looking at her. “Some of us don’t linger in bed for hours.”

Aelin smirked. “Some of us enjoy lingering.”

Elide choked on a laugh, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. Rowan just sat across from them with the serene patience of someone who’d long accepted Aelin’s habit of poking the bear.

He gave a curt nod, managing to sound formal and annoyed with just three words: “Of course, Majesty.”

“Oh, don’t start with that,” Aelin said, plucking a raspberry tart from the tray in front of him. “You didn’t call me Majesty when I threatened to throw you into a swamp.”

Elide snorted into her tea.

“That was a different situation,” Lorcan muttered.

“Was it?” Aelin asked sweetly, already biting into the tart.

Elide leaned closer, stage-whispering, “He’s grumpy because I made him promise to carry my shopping bags today.”

Lorcan’s glare was flat. “You said you needed my opinion on dress colors.”

“Oh I need that too,” Elide said brightly. 

Aelin grinned. “Poor thing. All that silk. However will you survive?”

Lorcan muttered something into his tea that might’ve been a prayer.

“Elide, what news of my fitting this morning?” Aelin went on, grabbing a slice of toasted bread and layering it with berry jam. 

Lorcan gave a theatrical sigh and set his knife down, shaking his head and muttering something about dresses.

“Yes, Lorcan,” Elide said, sipping delicately from her tea, “dresses. Which you will be admiring and complimenting like a proper gentleman.”

Aelin gave him a sympathetic pout. “Do try not to growl at the dressmaker. Or shed. I hear they charge extra for fur removal.”

His upper lip curled. “Careful, Majesty. I bite.”

“Oh, I know,” Aelin replied sweetly. “And yet, somehow, Elide still keeps you around.”

Rowan chuckled into his cup. Elide leaned forward with mock severity. “He’s been shockingly well-behaved today. Only glared at one servant and didn’t scowl when I asked him to carry my shoes.”

“Remarkable restraint,” Rowan said dryly.

“I aim to please,” Lorcan muttered.

“No, you aim to brood,” Aelin said, standing and brushing crumbs from her skirts. “Come on, Elide. Let’s go find out how many yards of fabric it takes to make a queen faint.”

Elide rose, grinning. “And how many it takes for Lorcan to run screaming.”

Behind them, Rowan gave Lorcan a mock salute. “Good luck.”

Lorcan just reached for the coffee pot and cursed Rowan for getting out of dress shopping duty as the two women swept from the room, laughter trailing in their wake.

The walk to the dressmaker’s shop took them through the heart of Orynth, its streets bright with spring sunlight and the stirrings of a kingdom in bloom. People nodded to Aelin as they passed--some bowing, some simply smiling--and she offered a greeting in return each time, never quite used to the weight of it. But with Elide beside her, grinning and chatting as if they were heading off to gossip over wine, the morning felt... light.

“This place is called Maris & Sons, ” Elide said, glancing down at the folded paper in her hand. “Apparently the sons moved out years ago, but the name stuck.”

Aelin raised a brow. “And Maris--Madame Severine--she truly knew both of our mothers?”

Elide gave a prim little smile. “She did. I remember my nursemaid, Finnula, mentioning her. She made some of the finest formalwear in the city.”

They turned down a quieter street, the stone buildings blooming with hanging baskets and open shutters. A few shops were already bustling: a bakery wafting the scent of cinnamon and honey into the street, a florist arranging bright bundles of spring blossoms, a scribe’s shop whose bell rang merrily as someone exited with a fresh-bound journal in hand.

And then--there it was.

The dressmaker’s shop stood at the end of the lane, its windows gleaming with sunlight and fabric displays that shimmered like captured moonlight. Silks and velvets, satins in every color Aelin could imagine. A delicate sign hung over the door, carved with precise script: Maris & Sons, Dressmakers.

“I’ll stay outside,” Lorcan grumbled.

Elide opened the door, the chime ringing softly. Aelin stepped inside.

The interior was warm and quiet, lined with bolts of fabric and headless mannequins wearing half-finished gowns. A woman in her middle years looked up from her table, her silver-threaded hair pulled into a coiled braid at the base of her neck.

She blinked once, twice--and then stood, bowing low. “Your Majesty. I--this is an honor.”

Aelin smiled, genuine and warm. “Thank you. And thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

Maris shook her head. “It is my privilege. I have your coronation dress set up in the back.”

Aelin glanced at Elide, then back at the seamstress. “I want it to be something unforgettable.”

The seamstress smiled, already gesturing toward the dressing room. “Then let’s begin.”

Aelin stopped on the threshold.

Elide, one step behind, let out a low whistle. “Gods above.”

The dressmaker, Madame Severine, beamed. “It’s not finished yet, Your Majesty. But I thought it was time you met her.”

Her.

Aelin stepped forward, her breath catching. The gown shimmered as if moonlight had been stitched into forest shadow.

The fabric was a deep, elegant green--dark as pine needles, rich as the forests of Terrasen. Silver thread, fine as spider silk, curled in embroidery across the bodice and sleeves: stylized ferns, flame motifs, stars, and the antlers of a great stag. At the collarbone, the threadwork formed a subtle crown--delicate and unbreakable.

Tiny crystals had been hand-sewn into the design, catching the light with every movement. The waist cinched gracefully, emphasizing her figure without restricting her. From there, the skirt fell in generous folds that whispered with motion, the hem edged in silver embroidery that mirrored the royal seal: flame, sword, and stag entwined in harmony.

Aelin touched the sleeve, her voice hushed. “You made this from the sketch I sent?”

Madame Severine smiled. “I improved it.”

“She did,” Elide said, circling slowly. “Aelin, it’s like the forest came alive for this.”

Aelin took another step, and the dressmaker gestured to a nearby screen. “There’s a shift already waiting. Let’s try it on. I need to mark where we’ll adjust the seams--your shoulders and hips most likely.”

As Aelin slipped behind the screen and carefully stepped into the gown, Elide waited beside the mannequin, still wide-eyed. “It’s so you,” she called. “Wild and regal all at once.”

“Isn’t that a little much for a dress?” Aelin called back, only half-teasing.

“It’s a coronation,” Elide replied. “It should be.”

When Aelin emerged a few minutes later, even the dressmaker paused.

The gown fit closely--not yet perfectly, but enough to suggest the power of the final form. The hem trailed slightly behind her, not quite the full train it would have, but commanding all the same. Barefoot, her golden hair loose down her back, Aelin looked every inch a queen of forest and mountain.

Elide put a hand to her mouth.

Aelin looked at herself in the tall standing mirror. The embroidery gleamed like starlight on forest leaves, the flowing lines evoking both warrior and goddess. She exhaled slowly.

Madame Severine approached with a small cushion of pins. “We’ll adjust the waist--just a half inch in. The sleeves need to be tightened slightly at the wrist. And the back--” She circled, gently tugging. “The corset panel can be drawn tighter.”

Aelin didn’t reply, only held still as the woman worked.

Elide said softly, “You’ll be unforgettable.”

“I hope so,” Aelin murmured.

“Come back in three days,” the dressmaker said briskly, stepping back. “We’ll have the sleeves finished, the train lengthened, and the final crystals set along the embroidery. I want you to walk like every inch of this land belongs to you.”

Aelin’s voice was quiet. “Thank you.”

Then she smiled--not for herself, but for Terrasen.

And in the mirror, the queen smiled back.

Rowan

The morning was crisp as Rowan made his way toward the palace’s courtyard, where he found  Fenrys. The city of Orynth, still buzzing with the recovery of the war, had a new energy. The streets were filled with life--citizens working, soldiers training, and people returning to their homes after the final battle. It was a strange sense of peace that hummed through the city now, one that Rowan had longed for but never truly expected to experience.

He found Fenrys lounging on a bench in the main courtyard, his golden hair glinting under the sun’s soft rays. Fenrys had an easy air about him, a sharp contrast to the fierce warrior Rowan had first known. But Fenrys had always been one to adapt.

“Not enjoying the morning alone, are we?” Rowan asked as he approached, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Fenrys looked up with a lazy grin, stretching his long limbs. “Not everyone has a beautiful mate to curl up with every night,” he chided.

“Don’t let Aelin hear you calling her beautiful,” Rowan teased. “Her ego is already big enough. Bigger than yours, I think,” he said, clapping Fenrys on the shoulder and smirking.

Rowan sat down next to Fenrys. “I was wondering if you might join us for lunch today and invite some of the Fae,” Rowan asked. “Aelin would like to get to know them. She doesn’t remember any of the Fae families who lived here before the occupation. Her parents kept them away, but she wants to change that. And she plans to ask you to help oversee their resettlement here in Orynth, if you’d like.”

Fenrys nodded. “I’ll organize it. But you can’t just throw a meal together without consulting all the right people. You know how it is.”

Rowan chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll get it all planned out.” 

“Of course,” Fenrys replied, standing up. “The Fae need protection, to feel safe. And they need to feel settled. I’ll stop by their camp and invite the ones I know to join us for lunch. That’s easy.”

“Sounds perfect,” Rowan agreed. “I’ll make sure everything is ready. But while we’re on the topic of important things for today, I could use your help with something.”

Fenrys raised an eyebrow. “A request from the king, huh?”

Rowan’s lips quirked, though his expression remained thoughtful. “Not exactly. But Aelin’s coronation is approaching. I want to find someone to make a new crown for her.”

Fenrys’ gaze sharpened. “I thought she already had one.”

“Adarlan destroyed it,” Rowan said, the bitterness clear in his voice. “They melted her crown, destroyed her throne.”

Fenrys’ eyes flickered with understanding. Fenrys had seen firsthand how much Aelin had suffered and sacrificed. She deserved this new symbol--one that could mark the beginning of her rule in a way that was uniquely hers.

“So, what’s your plan?” Fenrys asked, his voice low and serious now.

Rowan reached into the pouch at his belt, pulling out a velvet bag. He held it up, the gold within shimmering in the sunlight. “This is what’s left of the gold we took from the barrow in Wendlyn. I was thinking of a design with twining bands, like woven antlers. But I need to find a goldsmith.”

Fenrys took a step closer, his sharp eyes scanning the gold. “That would be beautiful,” he said softly, “she deserves it. After everything.” A shadow flickered in his onyx eyes.

Rowan nodded, his fingers brushing over the bag before pulling out a small crystal. “This is what makes it truly hers.” He held up the cut piece of crystal, the light catching the way it sparkled. “It’s a flower of kingsflame from Orlon’s reign, the only one. Darrow gave it to her himself.”

Fenrys’ brows furrowed as he examined the crystal. “A powerful symbol.”

“Exactly,” Rowan said, his voice thick with emotion. “I want it set in the crown, with the gold wrapping around it like antlers holding the flame. It’ll be a crown worthy of her--something that will symbolize her power, her reign, and the fire that burns in her.”

Fenrys’ eyes glimmered with understanding. “Alright King Rowan,” he said, clapping Rowan on the shoulder. “Let’s go find a goldsmith and get your queen the perfect crown.”

“Don’t call me that,” Rowan muttered, though he couldn’t keep the smirk from his lips. “Just Rowan.”

Fenrys grinned. “Sure, Rowan.”

Together, they walked down into the heart of the city, ready to give Aelin the first true symbol of what she deserved as the Queen of Terrasen.

After asking around for a master goldsmith and hitting a few dead ends, a baker’s wife--busy frosting honey cakes--overheard their questions and wiped her sugared hands on her apron.

"Try Emil Verloren," she said. "Has a workshop on the edge of the market square, near the old marble fountain. He’s not flashy, but his work’s finer than any jewelers’ guild. Trust me. He once made my wedding ring, and it still gleams like starlight."

Thanking her, Rowan and Fenrys followed the winding lanes until they reached the edge of the market square, where a quiet, sun-dappled shop sat between an herb-seller’s stall and a glassblower’s shed. The door bore no sign, only a brass handle shaped like an unfurled scroll.

Inside, the goldsmith’s workshop was filled with the scent of molten metal and ash. Shelves lined the walls, filled with tiny chisels, sketches, and scraps of precious metals. A man stood at a long bench, magnifiers perched on his nose as he shaped a filigreed bracelet.

He looked up as they entered, eyes sharp and hands steady. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"

Rowan stepped forward. "You’re Emil Verloren?"

"I am."

Rowan unfastened a small velvet pouch from his belt and placed it gently on the worktable. "We need a crown forged. For Queen Aelin Galathynius."

The goldsmith’s breath hitched. He looked from Rowan to Fenrys, recognition dawning.

"It would be the honor of my lifetime," Emil said quietly. "Tell me what you envision."

Rowan produced a second pouch and removed the wrapped crystal of kingsflame. "We want a crown shaped like twining antlers, to cradle this at its center. The gold is from Wendlyn--Fae-forged. No jewels, only this."

Emil examined the crystal. Then he pulled a blank sheet of parchment from a drawer and sat with quill in hand. Fenrys leaned over the table as Rowan described the vision--curving bands like a stag’s antlers, subtle flame motifs along the crown’s edge, and a center mount to hold the bloom.

Together, they sketched the design--refining curves, adjusting proportions, and discussing how the crown would rest on Aelin’s brow.

When they finished, Emil looked at the final draft and nodded, eyes bright.

"Give me three days. I will craft this with all the honor she is due."

Rowan bowed his head. "Thank you."

And as they stepped back into the sunlight, Fenrys clapped Rowan on the back. "Now that’s a crown fit for a queen."

Rowan only smiled, already imagining the moment Aelin would place it on her head--and what it would mean to their kingdom, to their people, and to her.

~~~~~

The long table in Aelin and Rowan’s sitting room had been brought in just for the evening, its polished surface gleaming in the golden light of the chandelier. 

Dinner was simple, by palace standards: roasted pheasant with sage and honey, wild rice, herb-laced greens, and thick, crusty bread served warm with whipped butter. Bottles of red wine had been opened, and several decanters now circled among them as the last course--a berry tart--was served.

Aelin reclined slightly in her chair, a glass of wine in hand, cheeks faintly flushed with warmth and laughter. Rowan sat beside her, his arm casually draped along the back of her seat, fingers occasionally toying with the ends of her hair. Across the table, Fenrys and Aedion were deep in an animated debate over which mountain pass was most treacherous in winter, while Dorian and Ren exchanged barbed but good-natured remarks over a sparring match they’d had earlier that day.

Evangeline sat between Lysandra and Aedion, her eyes bright as she carefully carved her tart. Though the girl said little, her occasional smiles were radiant.

“So,” Aelin said at last, cutting across the idle chatter with a grin. “My coronation dress is nearly finished.”

Lysandra leaned in, her own smile wide. “And?” she said, gesturing to the queen with her fork. 

“Stunning,” Aelin said with an air of nonchalance.

“You, or the dress,” Aedion teased. 

Lysandra smacked his arm. “Both, of course!”

Aelin laughed. “I did have to stand on a pedestal with a half-dozen pins sticking out of me. So there’s that.”

Rowan arched a brow. “You’ve suffered worse.”

“True.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Lysandra added, swirling her wine. “Elide said it’s majestic without being gaudy. You’ll look like you were born to wear it.”

“She was,” Rowan murmured, almost too softly to be heard. But Aelin heard. She brushed her fingers lightly against his beneath the table.

“I’ve made some changes to the throne room, too,” Lysandra continued. “I thought it was time it reflected the future of Terrasen, not just its past.”

Aedion smirked. “Let me guess: less somber stone, more light.”

“And more green,” she said pointedly. “The tapestries are being replaced, the banners updated, the windows cleaned. I’ve even convinced the gardeners to bring in some live trees.”

“Nothing like holding court in a forest,” Fenrys drawled, lifting his glass in mock salute.

“You’d enjoy it,” Aelin quipped. “You spent the whole afternoon in the wild, didn’t you?”

Fenrys grinned. “I did, actually. Some of the local Fae have wolf forms. They’re a wild bunch. We ran together for a while.”

“In the mountains?” Rowan asked.

Fenrys shrugged. “It felt good. Felt…free.” His eyes softened slightly. “It was the first time in a while I didn’t feel like I had to look over my shoulder.”

The quiet settled again, not heavy, but thoughtful. The kind of silence that followed shared understanding, mutual respect, hard-won peace.

Evangeline reached for another slice of tart, and Lysandra helped her serve it. Ren leaned back in his chair, staring at the fire with a rare softness to his features. Aedion refilled his glass, then Rowan’s. 

They’d survived war, loss and betrayal. And now--this. A warm room, a full table, and a future worth building.

Aelin met Rowan’s eyes across the rim of her glass. She didn’t need to say the words. He saw them there, glowing like coals beneath ash.

We’re here. We made it.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The meeting room was already full when Aelin and Rowan entered. Morning light poured in through the windows, gilding the long oak table where Darrow sat with papers stacked neatly before him. Fenrys leaned against a nearby wall, his expression unreadable but alert. Ren and Elide murmured to each other on one side, while Aedion and Lysandra sat opposite them, chatting quietly.

Aelin and Rowan took the seats at the head of the table.

She was ready for this. She had prepared, had studied the reports and proposals with Rowan.

As everyone came to attention, Darrow adjusted his spectacles and looked at her. "We have a number of decisions that need to be made,” he said, clearing his throat. “How shall we start today, Majesty?"

It hit her like a blow to the ribs. No warning, no gradual build-up.

Her heart began to pound, so hard she could feel it in her throat. Her palms went clammy. A tremor rippled through her fingers. Aelin blinked, tried to focus on Darrow’s face, on Rowan’s steady presence beside her, but the room suddenly felt too bright, too small.

The air grew thick. Suffocating.

Panic.

She didn’t know why. There was nothing unusual, nothing threatening. But the wave of nausea, the dizzy rush of heat--it clawed up her spine without reason.

“I--excuse me,” Aelin said, her voice tight.

She stood before anyone could rise to follow, before the concern in Rowan’s eyes could turn into action. She kept her head high as she left the room, the hem of her velvet coat swishing behind her.

The corridor was empty. Cool.

She pressed a hand to her chest as she walked, slower now, sucking in breaths through her nose. In. Out. In. Out.

It didn’t help.

Her legs carried her down the hall, past the tall windows, past the portraits of ancient Terrasen royals recently restored to their positions on the walls. She reached the small alcove tucked into a crook of the corridor, a bench beneath a stained glass window.

She sat heavily, bracing her elbows on her knees, burying her face in her hands.

Gods, what was wrong with her?

Everything had been fine just moments ago.

Aelin forced herself to count her breaths. One. Two. Three. The sound of the wind brushing against the panes above helped ground her. She focused on that, and on the slight chill of the stone beneath her thighs, anchoring herself to the present.

It was probably just exhaustion, she told herself. Or too much coffee. Maybe she hadn’t eaten enough that morning.

Anything but weakness. Anything but failure.

Fenrys

Fenrys felt the tension before anyone said a word.

The morning meeting had only just begun when Darrow inclined his head toward Aelin. "How shall we start today, Majesty?"

It was a harmless phrase. Formal. Expected.

But the moment it was spoken, something inside Fenrys snapped to attention. The phrase was an omen of horrific pain and suffering. His sharp hearing caught the sudden spike in Aelin's heartbeat. Too fast. Too sharp. Not the kind of racing that came with anger or excitement. Panic.

She sat very still, her hands resting on the polished wood of the table. But her fingers had gone white, knuckles strained. Her chest rose too quickly with each breath. She swallowed once. Then again. Then slowly stood.

"Excuse me," she said, voice calm enough to fool most people. Not him.

She turned and strode for the doors, her steps steady, but he could see it--tightness in her shoulders, in her jaw. The struggle to keep her composure.

Rowan made to rise from his chair a heartbeat later, his face going blank with concern. Fenrys was already moving. He stepped across the room, reached out, and gently placed a hand on Rowan's shoulder.

Their eyes met.

Let me , Fenrys tried to say with just a look. I know what this is.

Rowan's jaw tightened. He was possessive, protective--but after a moment, he gave the barest nod.

Fenrys slipped out the door.

He didn’t need to ask where she’d gone. He could scent the fear on the air, trailing like smoke. His chest ached.

Because he knew. Gods, he knew.

That phrase--almost exactly the one Cairn had spoken at the start of each torture session. He’d been there to witness every minute of it, unable to do anything to stop it.

And even now, after all these weeks of freedom, that phrase still lived in the dark corners of his mind, too.

He found her in an alcove, her head bowed in her hands. Her breathing was shallow and ragged, her whole body trembling with the effort of holding it together.

He approached slowly, making a soft noise of warning so he didn’t startle her. He crouched beside the bench, not speaking right away. He blinked four times. 

Aelin reached for his hand and held it tightly in her own as her eyes went glassy. "Fenrys--I don’t know what happened. I felt--I couldn’t--,” she whispered. “I was fine. I don’t even know why I’m crying!”

He moved onto the bench next to her. "I know. I know."

"Darrow said something that sounded just like Cairn,” he explained softly. “It was the way he said it, the words. It triggered your memory of all that."

She stared at him. Her lip trembled.

Fenrys swallowed hard. "He used to say it every time. Before he--before it started. I remember. I remember how you’d go still. How you’d brace yourself."

She let out a sound--half-sob, half-laugh--and leaned into him. He caught her, wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

He went on. "It was always the same. 'How shall we begin today?' or ‘How shall we play today?’."

“Oh,” she replied quietly. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him hard. He could hear her heart still racing. “I don’t want them to think I’m weak, that I can’t handle the pressure.”

Fenrys’s face softened, and he squeezed her tight. "Your body remembered something before your mind could catch up. That’s not weakness. That’s just survival."

He knew, because he had felt it too. The way something small and innocuous could become a blade to the ribs. A phrase, a smell, a flicker of shadow. There were nights he’d woken up with an echo of the scent of her blood in his nose, or sometimes his brother’s blood. Days when he’d flinched at a sound or a smell that sparked at something familiar deep in his subconscious. The scars weren’t always visible.

Seeing her like this cut deeper than he expected.

He had been there. Not just in the room, but beside her during the hours of torture. He had felt her screams vibrate through the stone. Had knelt beside her broken body when silence finally fell. Had plucked shards of glass from her bloodied flesh. They had suffered together. Survived together.

"I don’t want to fall apart in front of them," she whispered.

"Then don’t," he said softly. "But give yourself a moment now. You deserve that."

She nodded once, her throat tight. After a long silence, she said quietly, "Thank you. For following me."

Fenrys smiled faintly. "Anytime, Majesty."

Aelin let out a broken laugh, wiped at her face, and straightened her spine.

He stood and offered his hand. She took it.

As they neared the corridor that led back to the council room, Aelin slowed her steps, her fingers still curled around Fenrys’s.

She took a deeper breath this time--steady, full--and let it out slowly. The pounding in her chest had quieted, though the tightness lingered just behind her ribs.

“I’m going to be okay,” she said, her voice quiet, but sure. “I just…” She glanced down the hall, toward the closed doors of the meeting room. “I need a drink of ice water from the kitchen.”

Fenrys didn’t reply right away, just studied her face. Then he nodded once, as if to say I know.

“Go back,” she said. “Tell them that my monthly cycles suddenly returned. Or that I’m checking on a report with classic Galathynius flair. Make something up.”

Fenrys arched a brow. “You’re trusting me with the performance?”

Aelin’s lips lifted slightly. “I’ve seen you lie with flair, Fenrys. I think you’ll manage.”

He gave her hand a light squeeze. “I’ll give you five minutes before I come back with a dramatic summons.”

“Make it ten,” she said, voice more even now. “And don’t be too dramatic. Just… credible. I need time to get to the kitchen.”

Fenrys inclined his head, then turned and strode back down the corridor.

The door clicked softly behind him as Fenrys stepped back into the meeting room.

Every head turned.

He kept his expression smooth, casual, even as his blood still thrummed from what had just passed. Aelin’s panic, the sheer force of it--he’d seen that kind of reaction before. On the battlefield. In the mirror. And in that gods-damned temple chamber in Doranelle.

He crossed the room with easy strides, brushing a hand through his hair as he stopped beside Rowan’s chair.

“She’ll return shortly,” he said, voice calm but clear. “A dispatch arrived from the northern border just before the meeting. One of the scouts requested clarification from her directly. She stepped out to respond.”

Aedion narrowed his eyes, immediately catching the lie. Rowan, of course, didn’t blink.

Darrow frowned. “And this dispatch couldn’t wait until after the meeting?”

Fenrys didn’t move. “Apparently not.”

Darrow leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the tabletop. “It seems Her Majesty is finding reasons to delay when it suits her.”

A long silence followed.

Rowan’s knuckles whitened where his hands gripped the arms of his chair.

Fenrys didn’t let his smile slip. But his voice turned to ice. “She’s the Queen of Terrasen. She’s earned the right to respond to urgent matters without being second-guessed by a man who refused to raise a blade when the kingdom burned.”

Aedion chuckled--though there was no humor in it. “Careful, Darrow.”

Darrow’s nostrils flared. “I am not the enemy here, General. But this kingdom cannot afford a ruler who walks out of a council meeting whenever she pleases--”

A deep, animalistic growl cut him off.

Rowan.

The room went silent.

The sound hadn’t been loud--but it had vibrated through the floor, through the bones of every person seated at that table.

Fenrys didn’t even try to suppress his own answering snarl. It slipped free like a dagger drawn from its sheath, sharp and dangerous.

Then came a third growl. Lower, rougher--Aedion.

Gods help them all, the three of them hadn’t been in sync like this since the battlefield. It was instinctive, that unified, territorial sound.

Darrow’s lips parted slightly. For the first time in recent memory, he didn’t have a retort.

Fenrys leaned forward slightly, one hand on the table. “She’ll return in ten minutes. You can sit quietly, or you can walk out. But I suggest you choose carefully how you speak of your Queen again.”

Darrow looked between them, his mouth tight. He said nothing.

Ren cleared his throat. “Perhaps we could begin reviewing the agriculture reports while we wait. There’s no need to waste the time we have.”

Elide shot Ren a small, grateful glance. Lysandra looked positively amused, her eyes glinting with restrained satisfaction.

Fenrys gave her the barest wink before settling into a chair next to Rowan.

The tension lingered like smoke. But the meeting proceeded.

Ten minutes, he thought. She just needed ten minutes. And when she came back through that door, head high and fire steady behind her eyes, they’d all remember why they followed her in the first place.

And if Darrow forgot again?

Fenrys hoped the old man had a strong heart.

Because next time, he wouldn’t hold back.

Rowan

The fire in the hearth burned brightly when Rowan and Aelin returned to their chambers for lunch. Aelin hadn’t said much since they left the meeting room--just a brief nod of thanks to the aides who brought in the trays, a murmured request for privacy, and then silence as the doors shut behind them.

Rowan didn’t press her.

Not as they settled onto the cushioned window bench beside the small table, not as she absently stirred her soup without eating it. The early afternoon light slanted across the floor, catching in her hair, gilding it like sunlight on molten metal.

She was calm. Too calm.

He knew better than anyone what that kind of quiet meant.

He placed a gentle hand on her back and rubbed soothing circles down her spine.

“I’m still not sure what happened,” Aelin said at last, voice soft, a little frayed. Her spoon scraped against the bowl, idle, rhythmic. “One moment I was fine. The next, I couldn’t breathe. It came out of nowhere.”

Rowan looked at her, letting her speak at her own pace.

“Something happened when Darrow started to speak. Something he said--” She broke off. Shook her head. “I didn’t realize what was wrong until Fenrys told me that it had to do with Cairn.”

He shifted closer to her and asked softly, “what do you mean about Cairn?”

“Cairn used to say something similar to what Darrow said when he was starting the meeting. That same phrase, or close enough. Every time he--”

She stilled.

The quiet between them stretched, thick and pulsing with memory. She didn’t need to say. He knew.

“I didn’t... remember it,” she whispered. “Not consciously.”

“That’s how it works sometimes.” His voice was gentle.  “The body remembers. Even if the mind tries to bury it.”

Aelin drew her knees up onto the bench, tucking her feet beneath her. She leaned her shoulder against his side and stared out at the snowy rooftops of Orynth.

“I thought I was fine,” she said. “I thought... I’d moved beyond what happened. But if something as simple as a sentence can unravel me like that--”

“It doesn’t mean you’re not fine,” Rowan cut in quietly. “It means you’re healing. And sometimes healing means facing echoes you didn’t expect. You survived, Aelin. But survival has scars, too.”

She was silent for a long time.

“I don’t want them to think I’m weak,” she murmured. “Darrow already doubts me. He thinks I’m impulsive. That I’m too emotional. That I’m reckless with power I haven’t earned.”

Rowan reached across the space between them and took her hand. Her fingers were cold.

“Darrow didn’t survive what you did. He held this kingdom together while it crumbled with his shrewd fiscal management. He didn’t walk into darkness and death, he didn’t face monsters and cruelty, and come out the other side.”

He ran his thumb over her knuckles. “You did. You’re not weak. You’re still standing.”

Her throat worked around a breath. She looked down at their joined hands, as if unsure what to say. Then, in a near-whisper: “Fenrys said he still gets flashes, too. That even now... it sneaks up on him.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened.

“I know,” he said. “I see it in him sometimes. The way he stiffens at certain noises. He doesn’t talk about it much, but I know.”

He swallowed, feeling his own fury rise--useless now, but there all the same. “I hate that you both carry this. That I couldn’t stop it.”

She looked up sharply, eyes flaring. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I feel like it was. It was my job to protect you.” He exhaled through his nose. “And either way, it doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could have spared you any of it.”

They sat like that for a while. The food on the table grew cold. Neither of them moved to eat.

Eventually, Aelin leaned her head on his shoulder, her breath warm against his collarbone.

“I’m trying,” she said. “To be a queen. To lead. But some days, it still feels like I’m just surviving.”

Rowan rested his cheek against her hair. “Then let today be one of those days. And tomorrow, we’ll try again.”

She nodded, her hand tightening around his.

And in the golden light of a winter afternoon, they let the silence settle again--this time, not heavy with pain, but with the quiet understanding of two souls still learning how to live after the storm.

After lunch, Rowan had some errands to run in town. He wanted to check on the progress of the crown, and visit some of the clothing makers’ shops to find something suitable to wear for Aelin’s coronation. But even as he buckled his sword belt, his eyes kept straying to where Aelin sat near the window, gazing out at the snowy courtyard below.

She looked peaceful--on the surface. But after the morning’s panic, he didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone.

He crossed the room to her, crouching slightly so he was at her eye level. She turned to him as if sensing the movement, and he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You’re going,” she said softly, not a question.

Rowan offered a nod. “Just into the city. I have to check on something, and I need to look in on a few tailors. I should look like something other than your bodyguard when you’re crowned.”

Her smile was faint but warm. “You always look good.”

He raised a brow. “I won’t be gone long,” he said softly.

“I know.” Her smile was small, but real.

He leaned in and kissed her gently, brushing his lips over hers once, twice. Then deeper, slower--a promise in the press of his mouth. Her hands came up to rest against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic.

When they parted, her eyes were slightly brighter.

“I’m going to find Galan,” she said quietly. “I want to spend some time with him and get to know him better.”

Rowan nodded. “It’s a good idea. You two are cousins, and there's been too much distance between all of you for too long.” He hesitated, then added, “I’d feel better if you weren’t alone, though. Not after this morning.”

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted, but the slight uncertainty in her eyes betrayed her.

He kissed her forehead. “I’m going to find Aedion. Maybe he can join you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Rowan--”

“He’s Galan’s cousin too,” he pointed out.

She didn’t argue further.

Rowan left the royal chambers soon after, seeking out her cousin. He hoped Aedion would understand the unspoken part of the request: Aelin needed someone steady, someone who loved her fiercely--and who would never let her walk into any situation unguarded, even if it was just a family visit.

Aelin and Aedion didn’t know Galan well. Not yet. But they were all Ashryvers, and maybe this afternoon could start something new between them.

By the time he found Aedion in his temporary chambers, Rowan barely had to explain his request.

“You want me to be her shadow while she meets with Galan,” Aedion said flatly, looking up.

“Yes,” Rowan said, just as flat. “She wants to get to know him. She needs the connection--and she’s still not fully steady after this morning.”

Aedion’s jaw tightened slightly. “I noticed.”

Rowan held his gaze. “She’ll never ask for help, but she needs someone there. Someone she trusts.”

Aedion leaned back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Of course. But if Galan starts talking down to her like some distant royal superior--”

“You’ll shove him in a snowdrift?”

Aedion cracked a faint smile. “You said it, not me.”

Rowan returned briefly to Aelin’s chambers, just long enough to tell her Aedion was on his way. She stood by the window, her green velvet coat already fastened. The hood was down, her hair braided and coiled at the nape of her neck, regal and self-possessed once more.

Still--he touched her hand as he passed.

“I’ll be back by dinner.”

~~~~~

That night, Aelin and Rowan bathed together in the deep marble tub in their royal chambers, steam curling through the air like mist. The firelight flickered softly against the tiled walls, casting golden reflections across the surface of the water. Aelin leaned back against Rowan’s chest, her legs stretched out before her, toes just brushing the edge of the tub.

Rowan’s arms were wrapped loosely around her waist, his chin resting lightly atop her head. He felt her melt into the quiet intimacy between them.

“How was your afternoon?” he murmured, lips brushing her damp hair.

Aelin smiled faintly, trailing her fingers through the water. “Better. Galan was polite. Thoughtful, even. We walked the gardens and talked for a while. About Terrasen, about his home, about… us.”

“It was good?”

She nodded. “You were right to send Aedion. I was fine, but… it was good to have him there. Galan and I--there’s still a distance, but it’s one we both want to close. Galan remembered Aedion’s mother, that was a nice connection.”

Rowan’s hand slid over her stomach, his palm warm against her skin. “That’s something, at least.”

She turned slightly to glance up at him. “And you? Did you find anything to wear for the coronation?”

He snorted softly. “Eventually. One of the tailors insisted I try on half the shop. But I settled on something I think you’ll approve of. Dark green, with silver accents.”

Aelin grinned. “Good. We’ll match.”

They lapsed into silence again, the only sounds the soft slosh of water and the crackle of the hearth. Then Aelin spoke, quieter now. “Tomorrow’s meeting with Dorian and Ansel might be complicated.”

Rowan’s fingers traced idle circles along her arm. “Dorian trusts you. So does Ansel. We’ll find a path forward.”

“Melisande’s involvement in the slave trade and the war can’t go unanswered. But continued occupation…” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I don’t think any of us want that. Not in the long run.”

“No one wants that,” he said. “But justice still matters. We’ll figure out what that looks like.”

Aelin closed her eyes, and Rowan felt her body finally beginning to fully unwind in the comfort of the bath and his embrace. “Thank you for today,” she whispered. “For being there for me. For knowing when I needed someone.”

Rowan pressed a kiss to her temple. “Always, Fireheart.”

They stayed like that until the stars outside the frosted window blinked high in the sky, the weight of the kingdom resting a little easier between them.

After they dried off and slipped into the quiet warmth of the bedchamber, Aelin reached for one of her nightgowns--a sheer, silken slip the color of pale gold that shimmered in the firelight. Rowan, already pulling back the covers, looked up just in time to see her step into it. The fabric clung to her like starlight.

He paused, breath catching. "You're going to undo me," he murmured.

Aelin arched a brow as she padded barefoot toward the bed. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Rowan grinned, pulling her into his arms as she slipped beneath the covers beside him. "I still want to tear that thing to shreds," he said into her ear, his voice low and rough.

She laughed softly, tucking herself against him. She nestled against his chest, her fingers tracing slow, absent patterns along his side.

They tried to settle, the warmth of the sheets wrapping around them, the fire casting low shadows across the room. But Rowan’s eyes kept drifting back to her, to the way the thin fabric outlined every curve of her body even in the low light.

He let out a long, quiet breath. “You expect me to sleep with you looking like that?”

Aelin’s smile was wicked as she shifted closer. “Would you rather I take it off?”

Rowan groaned softly and buried his face in her neck. “You are a menace.”

“And you love it,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his cheek.

He turned his head, nuzzling her neck. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured.

Then, with a quiet growl of affection, he nipped her earlobe, then her neck--teasing, tender. Aelin let out a soft laugh, curling closer.

“Careful,” she warned with a smile in her voice, “or we’ll never get any sleep.”

Rowan chuckled, voice husky. "Oh, there’s no way we’re going to sleep now."

She shivered at the promise in his tone.

And he had meant it. Rowan worshipped her thoroughly, as if each breath, each kiss, was a vow. He touched her like her pleasure was sacred, like the world might end if she weren’t exquisitely and entirely satisfied. And when he finally held her close, both of them sated and breathless, it was with a tenderness that stole the words from her heart.

Eventually, much later, wrapped in the warmth of each other and the soft hush of the fire, their limbs entangled beneath the covers, Rowan finally let his breathing slow. Her warmth against him, the steady thud of her heart, the silk of her nightgown brushing his skin--sleep came, not easily, but sweetly, wrapped in firelight and love.

Chapter Text

Aelin dreamed of chains.

She was in the iron box.

Cold stone walls, iron chains biting into her wrists, and the scent of her own blood thick in the air. The torches guttered low, and footsteps echoed--measured, deliberate, cruel.

Cairn.

He emerged from the shadows, smile like a blade. “How shall we play today?” he asked, fingering the whip hanging from his belt.

Aelin tried to lift her head, to speak, to scream--but her voice wouldn’t work. Her magic was repressed. The cold sank into her bones like rot. She felt the lash before she heard it, the crack of it splitting the air, her skin, her world.

The pain wasn’t new. What was new was how clearly she felt it now--how memory had returned in brutal sensations. Her body arched involuntarily against the restraints. Cairn’s laughter rang out, distorted by the stone.

“Are you going to count for me today, heir of fire ,” he taunted, “or are you still a stubborn little bitch? Let’s see how long this lasts.”

Another lash. And another. More pain. Fire beneath her skin. Iron needles. Chains so tight she couldn't breathe. Days without food. Her own blood coating her skin. The silent scream caught in her throat. Suffocating darkness.

And through it all: the searing shame of helplessness. The fear that no one would come. The despair in Fenrys’ eyes. The terror that she’d break . Disclose her knowledge of the wyrdkeys.

Aelin jerked upright, the scream tearing from her lips before she even registered the bed, the warmth, the moonlight.

Rowan was already up, already moving. He was beside her in a breath, strong arms wrapping around her as she panted and clawed at the sheets, at her face.

“It’s me,” he said gently, again and again. “It’s me. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

She buried her face against his chest, sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe. The dream clung to her like smoke. But it hadn’t been just a dream. It had been memory--real and raw. She could feel the lash on her back, the mask on her face. 

After a moment, Aelin abruptly pulled away and bolted from the bed, bare feet hitting the stone floor. Rowan was on his feet a moment later, but she was already in the bathing room, dropping to her knees over the basin.

She vomited.

Her body convulsed with it, the memory of the iron, the pain, the helplessness rippling through her anew. Rowan knelt beside her, one hand on her back, the other holding her hair as she retched between sobs, trembling and breathless.

Only when she was empty, only when she slumped back against the cool marble, did he speak. “I’ve got you, Fireheart. I’m right here.”

And she nodded, still shaking. Still producing wretched sobs that made her entire body convulse.

Rowan shifted closer on the cold tile, pulling her gently into his lap. She curled into him, head pressed to his chest, tears soaking his bare skin as his arms wrapped around her.

Rowan held her as she sobbed and convulsed, rocking her slightly, murmuring whatever words he could think to keep her anchored.

Eventually, when her tears slowed and her body stopped shaking, Aelin drew a shuddering breath. “I can’t do this,” she said, voice shaking. “I can’t do this.”

Rowan’s jaw was tight, his arms steady around her. “I know,” he said. He didn’t speak again, didn’t try to convince her otherwise, didn’t offer words she wasn’t ready to hear. Not now. He just held her as she wept, the tremors running through her slow and aching. 

“I hate that he still has this power over me,” she whispered. “He’s dead, gods damn it, and yet he’s still very much alive, up here,” she cried, tapping on her temple.

“I know, Fireheart.” Rowan just held her, rubbing one of his hands gently up and down her arm.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time didn’t matter.

Eventually, her sobs faded to hiccupped gasps. She clung to him, too exhausted to move.

~~~~~

The morning light filtered in warm and golden, streaking across the tangled sheets.

Aelin blinked awake slowly, the weight of exhaustion still heavy in her limbs. She was in their bed. She didn’t remember coming back to it.

The last thing she remembered was sobbing in Rowan’s arms on the bathroom floor.

He must have carried her.

She shifted slightly beneath the blankets, sore and raw in ways that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with the memories that had surged forth in the night.

Rowan wasn’t in the bed.

But just as she began to sit up, the door to their chambers opened, and he entered carrying a steaming mug of tea in each hand.

“I told the kitchens to bring breakfast up,” he said softly, eyes scanning her face as he crossed the room. “Didn’t want you to have to go downstairs yet.”

Aelin sank back against the pillows as he placed the mug into her hands and pressed a kiss to her temple. The scent of mint and honey curled around her. Safe. Warm.

“Thank you,” she murmured, voice hoarse.

Rowan settled beside her, watching her with quiet intensity, as if trying to read the emotions flickering through her.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

She took a sip of tea, forcing a smile. “I’m okay. Better.”

His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t challenge her. “Would it be all right if I asked Yrene to come check on you?”

Aelin blinked at him. “Rowan, I don’t need a healer.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’d rather be cautious.”

She sighed, staring down into her mug. The warmth had begun to ease the tightness in her chest, but she still felt raw and exposed.

“Fine,” she relented quietly. “If it makes you feel better, you can ask her.”

He didn’t smile, but something in his shoulders eased. “Thank you.”

~~~~~

The knock was soft, but Aelin still groaned.

“She’s here,” Rowan said gently from the door, his tone carefully neutral.

“I know,” Aelin muttered from where she lay curled under the blankets. “Don’t act like I didn’t agree to it.”

He gave her a look--half grateful, half exasperated--and opened the door to let Yrene in.

Yrene’s eyes went straight to Aelin, her healer’s gaze scanning her in a heartbeat. “Well,” she said lightly, “you’ve seen better days.”

Aelin cracked half a smirk. “I only agreed to this so Rowan would stop hovering like an overprotective buzzard.”

Rowan, bless him, said nothing. He merely nodded to Yrene and added, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Aelin made a rude gesture as he slipped out. Yrene didn’t comment--just set her satchel on the chair and moved toward the bed.

“I’m fine,” Aelin said immediately, already bristling. “I just had a bad dream.”

“Bad enough to leave you white as snow and retching?” Yrene said, arching a brow as she perched beside her. “I’ve seen nightmares before. This was more.”

“It wasn’t,” Aelin said too quickly.

Yrene didn’t answer right away. She reached for Aelin’s wrist, checking her pulse with gentle fingers, then laid a hand lightly over her stomach.

“I have to ask,” she said softly. “Could you be pregnant?”

Aelin stiffened. “I don’t know. Maybe? We haven’t exactly been trying to avoid it. But I haven’t felt different, really. Not in that way.”

Yrene nodded and let her magic flow gently into Aelin’s body, golden warmth sweeping through her.

A few moments passed in silence, and then Yrene pulled her hand back.

“You’re not pregnant,” she said. “You are a bit dehydrated. Your body’s under stress--emotional and physical.”

“I told you,” Aelin muttered, “just a bad dream.”

Yrene didn’t let it go. “Dreams can trigger physical symptoms. But not like this unless something deep is being stirred. Vomiting, shakes, this kind of fatigue--it’s not just a dream. Your body is reacting to the trauma you endured, Aelin.”

Aelin tensed.

“I’m not asking you to tell me,” Yrene said calmly. “But you have to understand what’s happening. You’re holding it in, locking it away, but it’s leaking out through your body. And if you don’t start finding a way to deal with it, to process it, it will keep showing up like this. Or worse.”

Aelin’s voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t. If I start to feel it… all of it…” She just shook her head. “I can’t.”

Yrene reached for her hand, warm and steady. “You already lived through it. That was the hard part. Feeling it won’t break you. Ignoring it might.”

Aelin didn’t reply. Her throat worked, and her eyes shimmered, but she didn’t look away from the far wall.

“I’m going to leave you some tea,” Yrene said gently, rising to prepare a blend from her satchel. “It’ll help with the nausea and rehydration. But that’s only a start. You need to eat. Rest. And when you’re ready, even just a little--start talking. Or writing. Just… something.”

Still no answer. But Aelin didn’t flinch when Yrene touched her shoulder again before heading to the door.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Yrene said, “unless you ask me sooner.”

And Aelin, after a long pause, finally murmured, “Thank you.” 

Rowan

Back in their chambers, Rowan stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the courtyard below without seeing it. He had left their chambers earlier to give Aelin space, but like the hovering buzzard she accused him of being, he had waited, pacing just outside until Yrene emerged. She had filled him in on her theory--that Aelin was experiencing physical symptoms in response to her inability to face her thoughts and emotions about what had happened to her in Doranelle. 

He could sense Aelin’s mood as she got up and started getting ready for the day, a mix of tension and exhaustion and something fragile that hovered just beneath the surface.

He heard her rustling in the washroom. Heard the splash of water, the swipe of the towel on her skin. The scent of jasmine and citrus bloomed a few minutes later, soft and clean. She emerged with her hair braided over one shoulder, dressed in a loose sapphire tunic and black leggings. Her feet were bare.

She didn’t look at him right away, just moved to the hearth and added a log. Lit it with a flick of her fingers. Her magic was gentle--controlled.

He understood trauma. Understood silence, too. But her silence--this silence--had begun to feel different. It wasn’t only the pain she wasn’t sharing. It was the distance she was putting between herself and the world.

And between herself and him.

He raked a hand through his hair.

She had always come to him, eventually. About Endovier. About Sam. About Nehemia. About Arobynn, and eventually about her parents and Marion. She had trusted him with her fury, her fear, her grief. Had held nothing back when she chose to let him in.

But not this time.

Not during the long weeks crossing the ocean when she sparred and exercised from dawn to dusk. Not during their brief, tense days in Anielle, when she wore her queen’s mask with mechanical precision. Not even as they’d traveled north beside the Khagan’s army, when the nights were quiet and she sometimes stared at the fire as if it might answer for all that had happened.

He had waited. He would always wait. He would never force her to speak a word she didn’t want to.

But he was her mate. He felt the depth of her suffering like a wound in his own chest, and it gutted him that she kept carrying it alone.

And worse--he feared she didn’t believe she could survive letting it out.

Rowan leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. A faint breeze stirred his hair. Below, someone was laughing in the street.

He didn’t blame her. Never had.

Whatever Maeve had done to her--whatever Cairn had done--he could feel it in her. The way her posture had changed. The way she flinched, almost imperceptibly, at the sound of distant footsteps. The way she smiled too quickly, too easily, just to end a conversation.

Rowan closed his eyes.

He would honor her choice. He always would.

But gods, he missed her.

Not the queen. Not the fire-breathing warrior.

Just her.

The female who had laughed into the wind on a balcony in Mistward. Who had smiled her feral smile running through the woods, wild. Who had looked at him like she saw every part of him--and had never once turned away.

He just wanted her to come back to him.

Whenever she was ready.

“I’m not retreating to bed again,” she said as she poured herself a cup of tea, as if she could hear his thoughts. “I’m really fine.”

Rowan didn’t smile, but a small breath left him. He stepped forward and gestured toward the adjoining sitting room. “Come eat something, then.”

She followed him without protest. That, in itself, said enough.

The food had been delivered earlier and kept warm beneath a domed silver lid. He lifted it and uncovered warm bread, fruit, soft cheese, and a bit of smoked fish. She wrinkled her nose at the fish but reached for the bread and a few grapes.

They ate in silence at first. Not tense, but not quite at ease, either. He poured her more tea when she finished the first cup, adding a drizzle of honey without needing to ask.

When she finally leaned back in her chair, her plate half-empty, he set his own fork down.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he said quietly. “Not until you’re ready. That’s always been our deal. But don’t shut me out, Aelin.”

Aelin’s eyes met his then--bright and raw but steady.

“That’s not… I’m not shutting you out,” she said, voice low and a little hoarse. “I just… I feel like I physically can’t talk about it. Like if I opened my mouth my throat would just close up. And I also don’t remember a lot.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I think Yrene is right, I’m probably not letting myself remember,” she admitted. “But it’s also because… Maeve made sure I couldn’t. She was in my head. She made everything feel like a dream. Or a nightmare. Twisted what was real and what wasn’t. I didn’t know how long I was in that box. Sometimes I thought it was a week. Sometimes I thought it was a century. I was always sedated after every…session. I never knew for how long. And when I woke up my body was always like new. My memory once I awoke was always muddled and murky. Aside from when it was actually happening, nothing about that time was ever clear. Not consciously in a way I could trust or that made any sense.”

Rowan’s throat bobbed. He could feel the rage starting to simmer within him, but he kept it on a very short leash. He kept his hands flat on the table. If he reached for her now, she might stop. So he just listened.

She looked down at her tea. “Fenrys… was there. The whole time.”

Rowan’s brows knit. “I know he was there--”

“No.” Her voice sharpened, cracked. “He was in his Wolf form. Maeve made him stay that way. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. He was forced to watch everything Cairn did to me. Every moment. That was his punishment. And he couldn’t stop it.”

Silence fell again. Heavy, terrible.

“I think I have to ask him about it,” Aelin said, shaking her head. “I don’t want to. Don’t want to ask him to relive any part of that. But I don’t remember it all and he does. And if I’m ever going to… to make peace with it, I need to know. If he can stomach talking about it, maybe he can help me.”

Rowan leaned forward at last. Gently took her hand.

She would ask Fenrys to speak with her. That was something. A first step. Maybe even the hardest one.

“I’ll be here when you do,” he said. “Before. After. During, if you want. You’re not alone.”

Her fingers curled around his.

“I know,” she whispered. “I’m just afraid.

“Of what?” he asked gently.

“Of remembering. Of falling apart.”

“You might fall apart,” he replied, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. “If you do, I will help you piece yourself back together. As we always do. Always.”

And for a long moment, they just sat there, hands entwined, the fire crackling softly behind them.

“We have a couple hours before we meet with Dorian and Ansel. What would you like to do?” Rowan asked.

Aelin considered it for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she looked up and met his gaze fully.

“I haven’t picked up a sword since the fighting ended,” she said. “I want to go out and spar.”

Rowan’s brows lifted--just slightly. Not in surprise at her desire to train, but at the quiet certainty in her voice. No edge, no bravado. Just something calm. Steady.

“All right,” he said. “Gear’s right here.”

She nodded and crossed to the wall where the custom racks had been installed just after they’d moved into the royal suite. A practical decision--they were both warriors, after all. No point in storing weapons in the armory when they used them nearly every day.

Rowan grabbed his favored blades from their mounts, methodical and efficient in his motions. Aelin reached for Goldryn, the golden hilt gleaming even in the soft light of the sitting room. Her fingers lingered on the blade’s grip for a breath longer than necessary.

By the time they stepped into the courtyard, the sun had warmed the stones and melted most of the lingering frost.

Aelin stood still in the center of the sparring ring, eyes closed, head tipped to the sky for a long moment. Breathing it in.

Rowan didn’t rush her.

When she looked at him again, something in her had settled.

“First to three?” she asked, rolling her shoulders.

Rowan unsheathed his blade with a wicked grin. “You’re on, Fireheart.”

And for the first time in what felt like ages, they danced.

The clang of blades, the scuff of boots, the laughter that broke out when Aelin caught Rowan off guard with a feint and a sharp elbow. It wasn’t about winning or losing. It wasn’t about perfection. It was about moving again. Feeling her body again. Reclaiming control, even in a space as small as the sparring ring.

Rowan could see it in her eyes--that spark reigniting. He didn’t dare name it aloud. Not yet. But it was there.

~~~~~

By the time they returned to their chambers, both were damp with sweat, hair tousled, and more than a little out of breath. Aelin’s braid had mostly unraveled down her back, and Rowan had a fresh bruise blooming on his forearm where her blade had struck with more enthusiasm than precision.

She grinned at him as they entered the sitting room. “Are you getting a little rusty?”

He shoved her lightly toward the bath chamber. “I still won.”

“By one point,” she said over his shoulder. “And only because you cheated.”

Rowan only smirked as he pulled off his tunic. “It’s not cheating if you fall for it.”

They slipped into the bath together, steam already curling from the surface as Aelin warmed the water with a lazy flick of her fingers. The wide marble tub filled the chamber with a pleasant, damp heat, easing into muscles and joints strained from disuse.

Rowan settled in behind her, arms bracketing her sides, and she leaned back against his chest with a long, contented sigh.

They didn’t speak for a while.

The scent of lavender and citrus drifted faintly from the oils she’d added, and the only sound was the quiet ripple of water. Aelin tilted her head back just enough to rest it against his shoulder, letting her eyes drift closed.

Rowan gently ran his fingers along the inside of her forearm, his touch light but grounding. “You’re quieter than usual,” he said eventually.

“Mmm. Just thinking,” she murmured.

“About the meeting?”

“About the bath.”

He huffed a quiet laugh against her temple, then pressed a soft kiss there. “We’ve still got time.”

“I know.”

They lingered, letting the minutes stretch. The warm water loosened knots in her back she hadn’t realized were there, and Rowan’s presence wrapped around her as tangibly as his arms.

Eventually, Aelin shifted forward to reach for the soap and began scrubbing away the remnants of their sparring match. Rowan helped, fingers gentle as they moved through her hair. It wasn’t about seduction or passion, not in this moment--it was about care. About being there. About easing the weight they both still carried.

When they finally stepped out, the sun was a little higher in the sky.

Aelin and Rowan dried off and made their way to their shared walk-in closet, both wrapped in plush bath towels. It was spacious, lined with shelves of neatly folded tunics, rows of boots, and racks of elegant dresses and tailored tunics. At the far end was a low sofa--an indulgence Aelin had insisted on when the rooms were being redone.

Rowan reached for a fresh tunic when Aelin touched his arm lightly. "Can we sit for a moment?" she asked. "I need to talk to you about something."

They sat together, side by side on the sofa. She stared at her hands for a long moment, gathering the words.

“I owe you an apology,” Aelin said.

His brows drew together, and he shook his head. "You don’t owe me anything, Fireheart."

"Yes," she said quietly. "I do. A few days ago, I talked to Aedion about... the plan I made with Lysandra. Before I was captured. When I thought I wasn’t going to make it. And this morning, Yrene asked me if I could be pregnant. It reminded me of it. Reminded me how I thought it would be okay to expect you to raise fake heirs with Lysandra pretending to be me."

Rowan inhaled slowly, but said nothing.

"It was disrespectful to you," Aelin went on, voice low. "To our relationship. I know that. I wasn’t in a good place when I came up with that plan. It’s not an excuse. Just an explanation. I was sure I was going to die. I didn’t think I had the luxury of considering what you would want."

Rowan finally spoke. "It’s alright, Fireheart,” he said. “That plan... it was a shock, yes. But what hurt most was that you didn’t talk to me when you realized what you had to do. That you didn’t give me the chance to help you. To find another way."

He took her hand. "The day you figured out the cost of closing the wyrdgate, on the boat after we left Skulls Bay, when you were sick… I thought you were pregnant. You let me think you were pregnant instead of telling me the truth. I was out of my mind. After everything with Lyria, everything Maeve did to make me believe I’d lost her--and our unborn child--in a war zone… Aelin, you had to know how I would feel about that.”

She nodded. "I do know. I wasn’t thinking straight."

“I was stunned when you told me you had been hoping to get pregnant,” Rowan went on. “To produce an heir. We hadn’t discussed that yet, which was just as much on me as it was on you. But,” he paused, shaking his head, “we were on the brink of war. I would not have wanted that then.”

Aelin nodded again. Rowan pressed a kiss to her hair. Then he reached over and gently pulled Aelin into his lap.

"I want children with you," he said. "When we’re ready. When you’re ready. But you’re still young, Fireheart. You’ve been through so much. You should give yourself time to rest, to rule, to just... live. We have time."

Aelin nodded. "Thank you. For understanding."

"Always."

Then Rowan wrapped his arms around her as he kissed her. Aelin moved to straddle him, her fingers tangling in his hair as she kissed him back, slow and deep. They sat like that for a long moment, tangled together, holding on.

Aelin pressed her forehead against his. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."

"You’ll never have to find out," he murmured, his hands caressing her back. One of her hands traced down his jaw, thumb brushing the scar there, before she leaned in to kiss him again--softer this time, lingering. Rowan's hands splayed across her hips, holding her to him with steady care.

"You are my heart, Rowan Whitethorn," she whispered between kisses.

He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, voice rough with emotion. "And you are mine."

She leaned in again, her mouth finding the sensitive place just beneath his ear. Rowan exhaled a quiet breath as her lips moved along his neck, tasting the warmth of his skin. His grip on her tightened just a little, loving and aching all at once.

Their kisses turned hungrier, deeper. Rowan’s hands slid beneath Aelin’s towel, fingers trailing ice over her skin. Aelin gasped softly into his mouth, her nails dragging along the back of his shoulders as her hips rolled against his. His scent--pine and snow and something purely Rowan--surrounded her, grounding and exhilarating all at once.

She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, breathless. "We’re going to be late."

"Let them wait," Rowan said, voice thick with desire, brushing his thumb over her cheek. He leaned in again, pressing a kiss to her jaw. "They can manage without us for a little while."

Aelin’s smile turned wicked. "I like the sound of that." 

Rowan shifted her more securely in his lap, his voice low and tender. "Good. Because I don’t want to be rushed when I make you moan, Aelin."

They didn’t rush. Towels slipped away, replaced by gentle touches and heat that built between whispered words and soft moans of pleasure. Aelin pressed herself closer to Rowan, needing--aching--to be close to him. As their bodies met, as she felt him move deep inside her, she cried out his name, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in, grounding herself in the scent of pine and snow and the weight of him beneath her.

She moved against him slowly, each motion deliberate, sensual. But beneath the slow rhythm, a deeper, more desperate ache stirred. Aelin pressed her forehead to his, panting softly. “Rowan, I just… I need…” she started, but couldn’t finish. The longing roared in her, elemental and wild. A need not just for closeness, but for connection--more than physical, more than skin and breath and touch.

Rowan seemed to feel it too. He held her tighter, one hand splaying across her lower back, the other cupping her cheek as he met her gaze. “I’m here,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

She rocked her hips, losing herself in the way he filled her, how every inch of her responded to him. Still, it wasn’t enough. Her hands roamed across his chest, down his arms, clutching, seeking. Her mouth found his again, deeper this time, bruising and raw, as if she could devour him, draw him into herself until they were no longer two people but one.

It was more than desire. It was a claiming, a remembering--of who she was, of what they had survived, of who they were together.

Rowan let her take what she needed. Matched her pace, met her hunger with equal intensity. He murmured her name like a prayer, like a vow. They moved together in a rhythm that spoke of all they’d endured--pain and joy, sacrifice and triumph.

When release came, it was not just a shuddering physical end, but something that echoed through her chest, her soul. Aelin collapsed against him, burying her face in his neck as he held her through it, as steady as a mountain, as soft as the wind through pine trees.

They stayed like that, skin damp and limbs tangled, until the world slowly returned around them.

When Aelin finally looked up, her expression was flushed but steady. “We’re definitely late now.”

Rowan smiled, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. “Worth it.”

Eventually, with quiet breaths and lingering touches, they stood and dressed in their walk-in closet. The air was lighter between them as the past was not forgotten, but acknowledged--and laid to rest, at least for now.

~~~~~

Later that evening, as twilight painted the sky in shades of rose and gold, Aelin stood before the mirror, adjusting the fine silver comb in her hair. They had wrapped up the meeting about Melisande and were preparing for a dinner with the Khaganate royals along with Dorian, Chaol, and Yrene.

Their earlier meeting with Ansel, Dorian, and Chaol had been intense, but productive. Together, they had crafted a unified response to Melisande’s crimes. The demands they had agreed to present to the Queen of Melisande were firm and clear: she must relinquish her throne, and a new, neutral monarch--one untainted by the slave trade or any alliance with Erawan--must be appointed to rule the country. Until then, the capital would be held under occupation.

Ansel had insisted that her forces be allowed to return to the Wastes. She’d done her duty, borne the weight of command long enough. Dorian, Chaol, Aelin, and Rowan had agreed that a combined force of Adarlanian and Terrasen soldiers overseen by Aedion would take over the occupation in the interim.

Additional demands were to be made as well--restitution. Melisande would be held accountable for the damage it had done not only to Terrasen and Eyllwe, but to every kingdom and people devastated by the slave trade it had enabled and profited from. Reparations would be calculated and enforced. Justice, long delayed, would be delivered.

Aelin exhaled, smoothing the bodice of her dress. She stole glance after glance at Rowan as he fastened the cuffs of his tunic and combed his fingers through his hair. Even now, after everything, he looked like something out of a dream--etched in moonlight and storm, wild and beautiful. She didn’t know how he was real, how he was hers. She would never stop marveling at it.

Rowan caught her staring as he reached for his jacket. He raised a brow, a teasing smile curving his lips. “See something you like, Aelin?”

Aelin didn’t look away. “You look... gods-damned good in formal wear. Can you blame me for staring?”

His grin widened as he walked over and stood behind her, helping with the clasp of her emerald gown. “You’re one to talk,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear as he fastened the delicate hooks. “This color looks like it was made for you.”

She tilted her head to the side, catching his reflection in the mirror, watching her with that steady, grounding presence that she had come to lean on so deeply.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Aelin nodded. "For this part? Yes. For all the parts that come after? We'll see."

Rowan offered his arm, and as she took it, his voice dropped low. "Whatever comes, we face it together."

She smiled, heart lifting as they turned toward the door. "Together."

And with that, they stepped into the corridor, ready to face the next chapter of rebuilding a shattered world.